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And that terrifies me more than it should.

I turn my attention to my laptop and scroll through an inbox that looks like I’ve been offline for a year. Agency updates, contract revisions, brand meetings, media requests, Stevie’s dramatic messages, my mother’s, and an email marked URGENT that absolutely isn’t.

The usual chaos.

I ignore most of it and open the training schedule Coach Yaziel sent me.

Practice. Strength training. Recovery. Media obligations. Travel.

Every hour accounted for. Every variable controlled.

Finally, something familiar.

The Grand Crown of Skating is approaching—the only championship I’ve never won. Reserved for World Champions, it combines four disciplines into one cumulative score: the short program, free skate, gala program, and extreme exhibition.

Four performances. One title. No room for mistakes.

I want that crown.

And perfection is something I understand.

Soon, I’ll be back in New York, back on the ice, back where everything makes sense.

My gaze drifts toward the library door.

I think I hear footsteps.

My mind immediately supplies one name.

Stephen.

I stare at the door for another second before forcing myself back to work.

Someone who sounds so helpless when his nightmares find him deserves warmth. Someone bright and happy, like Stevie.

Not someone who has spent her life making peace with the cold.

I’ve never minded who I am. But the cold has never made me question why leaving somewhere I desperately wanted to escape suddenly feels wrong.

Why do I miss Stephen when he’s only one wing away? Why do his footsteps make me look up? Why does his silence bother me, and why does his smile linger long after he’s gone?

Why did my heart decide to stay before my brain could object?

For the first time in my life, not having the answers doesn't make me angry.

It scares me.

A video call flashes across my screen.

Dad.

I answer immediately.

The second the screen connects, my father’s handsome face appears.

I notice the marble dust coating the sleeves of his dark gray shirt. Behind him stands a half-finished sculpture of a woman who resembles both my mother and Cupid, surrounded by all his tools, sketches, and a mess of marble dust.

His silver-streaked hair looks like he’s been running his fingers through it. Which means he’s been working for hours.