Chapter 33
Corine
Three days. That’s all I had before New York Fashion Week. And somehow, despite the nerves twisting around in my stomach, it felt… right. I wasn’t running away from my past anymore. I was walking straight into my future.
“I don’t want to be away from them,” I told my mom that morning as we zipped up Kyle’s suitcase. “Not yet. Not again.”
She didn’t question it. She just touched my cheek gently and said, “Then let’s make it a vacation.”
So, we packed up. My mother, my father, my two kids, and me—headed for the city that never sleeps. My mom called it chaotic. Kyle called it a “cool crazy jungle.” And Astrid? She just kept pointing out of the airplane window, murmuring, “Sky, mama, sky.”
It was her first flight. Our first flight—together, since everything happened.
When we landed at JFK, the buzz was already in the air. As soon as we exited the terminal, the camera flashes started. The press had caught wind of my appearance at NYFW. It had been two years of silence from me—no interviews, no features. Just absence. They wanted a story. I wasn’t going to give them one.
Our security team—one of the few luxuries I had reluctantly accepted—escorted us to the black SUV waiting outside. I kept my head low, sunglasses shielding my eyes, Kyle’s hand tucked securely in mine, Astrid resting against my shoulder. The paparazzi shouted questions, some kind, some invasive.
“Corine! Is it true you’re walking Chanel?”
“Are you back full-time?”
“What happened to you, Corine? Where have you been?”
I didn’t answer. I didn’t flinch. I just got into the car, my mother beside me, her hand clutching mine in silent solidarity.
Kyle pressed his face to the car window, wide-eyed. “Are we in New York now?”
I smiled, brushing a hand through his curls. “Yeah, baby. We made it.”
“It’s so big. And there are soooo many people! Are we going to see Spider-Man?”
I laughed—really laughed. “Only if we’re lucky.”
We pulled into the underground garage of the penthouse I’d rented in SoHo. It was extravagant, I knew that. But after everything, I wanted this moment. A home away from home, at least for the week. Somewhere I could breathe. Somewhere I could hold both my career and my children in the same palm.
The next morning, I left the kids with my parents and slipped out before the city could fully wake up. I met Brittany at Café Mille on Spring Street, where she was already seated at a corner booth, large sunglasses on, latte in hand, and her blonde hair pulled into a slick ponytail.
She stood when she saw me, and we hugged like we hadn’t just seen each other a week ago in Carolina.
“You look radiant,” she said, nudging my shoulder.
“You’re lying,” I smirked.
“No, I’m not. You’ve got that I’m-coming-back-for-everything-you-said-I-couldn’t-have glow.”
I laughed softly. “And you look…” I glanced her over, letting my gaze rest briefly on her arms—where faint scars from her accident still peeked out. She didn’t hide them like she used to. “...like someone who’s survived hell and came out gold.”
She smiled at that. A real one. “I’m trying.”
We sipped coffee, caught up on small things. Her dad’s campaign. Her moving back home. Her therapy. Mine.
“I’m scared about the shoot,” she admitted quietly, stirring her coffee as if it were soup and not liquid anxiety. “Chanel? It’s huge, Corine. And I’ve never… I mean, my scars—”
“You’re more than your scars,” I said immediately, cutting her off.
“I know. I know. But the cameras don’t always agree.”
I reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “That’s why we show them what real beauty looks like. You’ve survived something most people wouldn’t come back from. You didn’t just survive—you’re blooming. That’s powerful. That’s rare.”
She blinked fast, biting her lip. “You’re gonna make me cry before we even get to makeup.”
I grinned. “Please don’t. I’m wearing white.”
As we finished up, Brittany mentioned it casually. “My brother’s actually flying in later tonight. He’s going to the fashion show with me.”
I tilted my head. “Jasper?”
“Yeah,” she said, nodding. “You remember him, right? He runs my dad’s company now—Ashford Oils and Furniture. He’s also basically managing the campaign.”
“I remember the name,” I said, nonchalant, sipping my cappuccino. Truth was, I remembered him more than I cared to admit. I remembered how sharp his jawline looked in the news photo next to Brittany’s hospital report. How calm and unreadable he always looked. Reserved. Unbothered.
“He’s intense sometimes,” she added with a small laugh. “But he means well. He’s the only reason I’m here, honestly. He told my dad if he wanted to keep the Ashford image spotless, he had to support my healing first. I guess… I don’t know. I owe him.”
There was a pause. I didn’t know what to say, so I simply nodded.
We left for the studio around noon, where a stretch of black cars took us across town. The city buzzed differently when you were in it for business. Fast-paced, suffocating. But exciting.
At the studio, our dressing rooms were next to each other. I slipped into the Chanel robe they handed me, taking a deep breath as the stylist approached. The lights. The mirrors. The quiet hum of the glam team getting to work.
I wasn’t afraid.
Because this time, I knew who I was.
When Brittany came out of her room in a silk black gown with one shoulder and visible lace across her collarbone, I saw her hesitate.
“They’re going to see the scars,” she whispered.
“They’re going to see your strength,” I whispered back.
She didn’t speak again. Just walked forward, her chin lifted an inch higher than before.
Later that night, I sat curled on the penthouse couch, Kyle asleep on my lap and Astrid beside me with her plush bunny. My phone buzzed. A new headline.
Corine Holts Returns: Fashion’s Phoenix
I smiled, just a little.
My parents sat on the balcony, sipping wine and talking softly. My heart was full. Not perfect, but full. And for once, I wasn’t afraid of tomorrow.
I was ready for it.