Chapter 3 — Isabella’s Plea

Solana

The morning light spilled through the kitchen window, bathing the room in a golden glow that felt unearned against the knot tightening in my chest. Isabella sat across from me, her fingers nervously tracing the rim of her coffee mug. Her face, so much like our mother’s, held that same unshakable determination. But beneath her practiced smile, I could see it—the faint shadows under her eyes, the way her shoulders slumped ever so slightly. She was trying so hard to hold herself together.

“So, what do you think?” she asked, her voice laced with a brittle hope that threatened to crack under its own weight.

I avoided her gaze, focusing instead on the steam curling upward from my mug. “I think you’re reaching, Isa,” I said finally, the words heavy and deliberate. “And I think you know that.”

Her smile faltered, just for a moment, before she steadied it again. “Things aren’t that bad yet,” she said, though her voice wavered slightly. “We just need a little help. A push. You know how much Echo Haven means to the neighborhood. To me.”

Echo Haven. The name alone carried so much weight. It wasn’t just a building. It was the soul of Echo Park—a place where kids dared to dream, where families rebuilt themselves, where hope grew stubbornly in the cracks left by the city’s indifference. And yet, the thought of stepping into that fight made the knot in my chest tighten.

“What do you expect me to do about it?” I asked, sharper than I intended. The words cut through the warmth of the room like a chill wind. Isabella flinched, and guilt immediately coiled low in my stomach.

She took a deep breath, leaning forward, her mug forgotten on the table. “You’re smart, Solana. You know how to talk to people—how to make them listen. Couldn’t you…” She hesitated, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve. “Couldn’t you talk to someone? A donor, maybe? Someone who could give us a chance?”

I stiffened, her words hitting a nerve I didn’t want to examine too closely. “You mean someone like Victor Lang?” I spat, the name leaving a bitter taste in my mouth.

Isabella’s brow furrowed, her expression softening. “That’s not fair, Sol. This isn’t about him.”

“Isn’t it?” I shot back, my voice rising. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to claw your way out of the hole someone like him shoves you into? To rebuild while people whisper behind your back, waiting for you to fail again? To see your name become a joke in rooms you fought like hell to belong in?”

Her mouth opened as if to argue, but no words came. The silence between us thickened, and when I looked at her, the hurt in her eyes stopped me cold. That was the thing about Isabella—she didn’t fight back. She absorbed every blow, even when she didn’t deserve them.

I exhaled sharply, running a hand through my hair. “I’m sorry,” I said, my voice quieter now, laced with regret. “That wasn’t fair. I just… I can’t do it, Isa. I can’t put myself in a position where people like him have power over me again.”

She reached out across the table, her hand warm and steady as she rested it over mine. Her touch broke through the protective walls I’d spent years building brick by brick. “This isn’t about them, Solana,” she said, her voice soft but unyielding. “It’s about us. About this neighborhood. About everything Mom gave to it. You know how much she loved this place—how much she fought for it. This is our chance to honor that.”

Her words landed like a blow, sharp and precise. The mention of our mother always had a way of slipping past my defenses. I could almost hear her laugh, see the worn apron tied around her waist, feel the quiet strength of her presence as she worked tirelessly to make sure we never went without. The locket around my neck suddenly felt heavier, its floral engravings pressing into my skin like a reminder.

“You’re asking me to fight a battle I’m not sure I can win,” I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper.

“You’ve been fighting battles your whole life,” she countered, her grip on my hand tightening. “Ever since Vegas. Ever since Mom. And you’re still here. You’re stronger than you think, Solana. You always have been. And you’ve always found a way.”

Her words, so simple yet so forceful, hit something deep inside me. I wanted to believe her—to let her hope fill the hollow spaces that had grown in me over the years. But hope was a dangerous thing. It made you reckless. Vulnerable. And I’d spent the last three years learning the hard way to avoid both.

Still, her unwavering faith in me burned like a quiet flame, small but persistent. I pulled my hand from hers, standing abruptly. “I’ll think about it,” I said, grabbing my mug and turning my back on the conversation before she could see the cracks in my armor.

“Thank you,” she said softly, her voice tinged with relief and exhaustion. I felt her arms wrap around me from behind, her embrace warm and grounding. “Thank you for always being there for me, even when it’s hard.”

For a moment, I stiffened, the old instinct to pull away warring with the comfort of her embrace. Then, slowly, I let myself sink into it. “Don’t thank me yet,” I murmured. “I haven’t done anything.”

She stepped back, her hands lingering lightly on my arms as she gave me a small, tired smile. “You will,” she said simply. “You always do.”

As she left the kitchen, the weight of her faith settled onto my shoulders, both comforting and suffocating in equal measure. I leaned against the counter, staring into the empty sink as the sunlight spilled in, too bright against the shadows curling inside me.

My fingers found the locket around my neck, tracing its worn edges. The cool metal grounded me, tethering me to memories I’d tried to bury. Memories of my mother’s quiet strength, her belief that the world could be better if we fought for it. I could almost hear her voice, soft and sure: *Mija, nunca dejes que el miedo te detenga. Lucha por lo que importa.* Never let fear stop you. Fight for what matters.

Fine. If Isabella needed me to fight, then I would fight. But I would do it on my terms. No begging. No bending. No letting someone like Victor—or anyone else—see me as weak. I would find a way to save Echo Haven. For Isabella. For Mom. For me.

The knot in my chest loosened, just slightly, as a quiet but steely resolve took its place. I wasn’t sure what the next step looked like, but I knew one thing for certain: I wouldn’t let this city, or its monsters, take anything more from us.

Straightening, I let my hand fall from the locket, the weight of it settling over my heart like a promise. If the city wanted a war, then a war is what it would get.