A flicker of irritation crosses his face, quickly masked by a diplomatic smile. “You’re emotional.”
“No,” I say, holding his gaze. “I’m honest. That’s something politics doesn’t teach.”
He chuckles along with his colleagues, low and condescending.
“This idealistic streak of yours was charming in college, Isabel. But you’re not a student anymore. It’s time to step into the real world.” John Meyer, Dad’s best friend and federal judge says.
“This is my real world. Legal consulting for women who’ve survived abuse, representing those without a voice—that’s real.”
Dad exhales sharply through his nose. “You’re wasting your talent. With your name and my network, you could’ve been on a council seat within two years. You still can be.”
And there it is.
“I don’t want to be a politician.”
“You want to play the savior instead?” he scoffs, his voice hardening. “Your mother did the same thing, you know. Always busy with her causes while I cleaned up the messes she left behind.”
My stomach flips. “Don’t talk about Mom like that.”
He pauses, studying me. “You’re so much like her. Stubborn. Idealistic. Impulsive.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You shouldn’t.”
The silence between us stretches, thick with everything we’ve never said.
Then he leans forward, lowering his voice. “Do you even know what you’re getting into, Isabel? You think working with victims is noble—do you know what kind of attention that brings? What kind of people will you be surrounded by?”
“I do,” I say coolly. “Which is why I’ve hired private security. In fact, I was at WAVC last week. And I’m organizing a fundraiser—with Grace.”
That catches him off guard. His brow twitches. “Grace? You’re involving her?”
“She’s the perfect fit. People respect her, and she’s always supported women’s causes.” I smile sweetly. “And she said yes.”
He narrows his eyes. “You’re serious about this.”
“Dead serious,” I say. “I’m not backing down.”
A long pause. Then, in a quiet voice, he says, “You could’ve been so much more.”
I stand, not sure why I’m here. “I am more. Just not in your image.”
He’s fuming and I can see it. When he’s about to reply my phone buzzes. Loud. Sharp. Inescapable.
The room falls quiet.
My father’s inquisitive glare cuts through me like a laser. “Isabel,” he says, low and pointed, a warning hidden in that single word.
I glance at the screen. A foreign number. My heart stutters—then slows.
I stand, offering an apologetic but clearly disinterested smile. “Excuse me,” I murmur, already walking out.
Morris opens the door for me, and as it clicks shut behind me, I press the phone to my ear. “Isabel Weister.”
“Hey, sweetheart.”
The sound of Nate’s voice punches the air from my lungs.
