Chapter 19
Corine
The walls of my room feel like a prison, the air so thick with grief it chokes me. Two weeks. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours since my world collapsed, and I'm still trapped in the wreckage, gasping for air no one seems able to give me.
My bed has become both sanctuary and tomb—no day, no night, just this endless blur of aching silence and shadowed memories. The curtains are drawn tight, shutting out the world that keeps spinning without me. I’ve stopped checking the time. Time doesn’t matter when everything you loved has been torn from you.
I don’t remember the last time I truly slept. Not the kind of sleep that cradles you, lets you escape. Just hours of lying still, staring at the ceiling while my mind replays the betrayal on a loop—the headlines, the cold shock of divorce papers, the image of Allen’s hand on her back—my best friend. My soul-sister. The woman I trusted most.
They’re everywhere—we’re everywhere. My name sprawled across tabloids like a horror story come to life: “Socialite Wife Shattered by Scandal.” “Corine Holt: Blind or Betrayed?” Some headlines are sympathetic, calling me the wronged wife. Others... less so. They ask if I ignored the signs, if I drove him to her, if I was too much, or not enough.
Every day, more flowers arrive. Bouquets, cards, boxes of chocolates from people I’ve never met. Fans. Strangers. Supporters. They say they’re praying for me, that I’ll come out stronger. My mother arranges them in the hallway, as if they’ll ward off the darkness seeping into this house.
But I’m not strong.
I’m not okay.
I can’t even fake it anymore. I haven’t left this room in eleven days. I can’t bring myself to see Kyle—my sweet, sweet boy—whose laughter now echoes like guilt. I hear his tiny footsteps in the hallway, his soft knocks on my door. “Mommy?” he says sometimes. “Are you coming out today?” And I don’t answer. Because if I open that door, he’ll see that his mother is gone.
And Astrid… my baby girl. She cries and I curl into myself, ashamed. Her cries pierce through me like glass. My arms won’t move to pick her up. I’m terrified I’ll drop her. Terrified she’ll feel my sadness and absorb it, like poison in her veins.
I’m failing them.
I’m failing myself.
Outside my door, voices whisper like ghosts. My parents. They don’t know what to do with me. I hear my mother sobbing late at night. I hear my father pacing, his footsteps tense and frustrated. I’m their baby, and I’m slipping through their fingers.
Then today, the door opens.
Not a knock—just opens.
My mother steps in first. She’s pale, her red-rimmed eyes searching my face for a flicker of the daughter she used to know. My father follows behind, his expression tight. He doesn’t speak right away.
And then a third voice. Male. Calm. Unfamiliar.
“I’m Dr. Michaels,” he says gently, stepping into the room like he’s walking on glass. “I’ve been consulting with your parents. Corinne… they’re worried. And I have to agree.”
I say nothing. Just stare past him at the corner of the room where the light barely touches.
“This isn’t just grief. It’s a deep depressive episode. You’re not eating, not sleeping, not engaging with your children—”
“Don’t,” I rasp, my voice cracked and hoarse. “Don’t talk about my kids.”
Dr. Michaels kneels slowly. “Then help me understand. Help us help you.”
“I just need time.”
“We’ve given time, sweetheart,” my mother whispers, stepping closer, tears falling freely now. “And we’re losing you anyway.”
“You want to lock me up,” I snap, dragging myself into a sitting position, my limbs trembling. “You want to send me to some clinic and pretend it’ll fix me.”
“We want to save you,” my father says firmly, for the first time raising his voice. “We’re not sending you away—we’re trying to bring you back.”
Tears blur my vision. “I can’t be fixed.”
“That’s not true,” my mother cries, dropping to her knees beside my bed. She grabs my hand—cold, limp, unresponsive—and squeezes. “You’re still here, Corinne. Somewhere inside this… darkness, you’re still you. Let us help you find your way back.”
“I don’t know how to be a mother anymore,” I whisper. “I don’t even know how to be me.”
My father’s voice softens. “Then let us carry you until you do.”
And then… a knock.
Sharp. Loud. Out of place.
We all freeze.
The door creaks open slowly—and there he is.
Allen.
Tall. Gaunt. Haunted.
His eyes lock with mine, and my stomach twists with so many emotions I can’t name them all. Rage. Grief. Betrayal. Love—no, not love. Not anymore.
My father steps forward instantly, standing like a shield in front of me.
“You don’t belong here,” he says coldly.
Allen doesn’t flinch. “I just came to check on her. And the kids.”
“You gave up that right when you walked out,” my father growls. “You don’t get to play the concerned husband now.”
“I am concerned,” Allen says, his voice tight. “I know I hurt her. I know I destroyed everything. But I still care. I still want—”
“Want what?” My voice, brittle and burning, cuts through the room. “To see the damage you caused? To see me on my knees so you can feel better about the fact that you shattered our lives?”
Allen swallows hard. “Corinne—”
“Don’t say my name.” My body shakes with fury as I force myself to my feet, stumbling slightly. “Don’t you dare say my name like it still belongs to you.”
He takes a step forward. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen—”
“You didn’t mean?” I laugh—a sound hollow and sharp. “You mean you just accidentally slipped into bed with my best friend? You just tripped into betrayal?”
His jaw clenches, his guilt plain on his face.
“I loved you,” I whisper, tears spilling. “I trusted you with my body, my soul, my children… And you spit on all of it.”
Allen looks down. “I made a mistake.”
“No,” I snarl. “You made a choice.”
The room is silent, thick with the weight of broken vows and shattered illusions.
Allen looks up again, voice hoarse. “Can I at least see Kyle and Astrid?”
My mother steps forward, arms crossed like a fortress. “Not today.”
“I’m still their father—”
“And I’m still their mother!” I shout, my whole body trembling now. “And I won’t let you waltz in here and pretend you didn’t burn our house down.”
Allen nods slowly. “I’ll go.”
He turns to leave, and for a moment, I almost let him walk away without another word.
But then I say it.
“I hate you, Allen.”
He stops.
“I hate you for what you did. I hate you for who you’ve become. And I hate that I still wake up thinking you might come through that door and tell me it was all a dream.”
His shoulders stiffen. He doesn’t look back.
Good.
Because I’m done.
I collapse onto the bed as he leaves, my mother climbing in beside me, wrapping her arms around my trembling body like she used to when I was a little girl.
“I’m broken,” I whisper.
“No,” she says, pressing her cheek to my hair. “You’re grieving. But you’re still here. And we’re not letting go.”