Chapter 36
Allen
The moment her face lit up the screen, I knew I wasn’t ready.
I had sat down with a glass of scotch, fully prepared to brush off whatever polished, PR-coached responses Vogue had pulled from her. But Corine—my Corine—spoke with a rawness that shredded me.
“I was diagnosed with chronic psychosis at birth,” she said, her voice steady but soft. “It got worse after I had my kids… especially after Astrid. I didn’t know who I was anymore. I was living in a house full of mirrors and couldn’t recognize my reflection in any of them.”
I paused the video and leaned forward, elbows digging into my knees. I couldn’t breathe. My throat was tight, my vision blurred. I ran a hand through my hair and pressed the pause button again.
Play.
“Some mornings, I’d wake up, look at Astrid or Kyle and wonder if they’d be better off without me. I tried to make that thought a reality… more than once.”
Her voice cracked. Mine did too, except I wasn’t speaking.
I had to pause again. The room around me faded. My penthouse, my money, my success—none of it mattered.
I broke her.
I broke the woman I loved more than anything in this godforsaken world.
She went on to talk about Brittany, Sylvia, Tate. The friends she made during her stay at the facility. The people who saw her in her rawest, ugliest moments and still held her hand. The people who did what I was supposed to do. Be there. Understand. Stay.
She said, “The worst part wasn’t the illness or the betrayal. It was the silence. Being surrounded by people and still feeling completely alone.”
I couldn't hold it together. I slammed the glass down, shattering it on the floor. Scotch soaked into the Persian rug. I didn’t care.
I sat there, watching the rest of the interview in broken pieces, letting her voice burn through every layer of pride I had left. I saw her eyes glow when she spoke about Kyle’s obsession with airplanes and how Astrid liked to sit in front of the mirror and brush her curls with her tiny hands, pretending to be a princess. That same mirror she once hated.
She was healing.
And I had no part in it.
I failed her. Not just in the ways people talk about in whispers. I failed her in all the silent ways too. I didn’t notice. I didn’t ask. I didn’t show up.
When the interview ended, I sat in silence, letting the weight of everything collapse on me. A few hours passed. I don’t know how many. I called my mother.
“She told her story,” I said into the phone, my voice barely above a whisper.
“I know,” she replied. “I watched it too.”
Silence.
“I didn’t know she was that hurt.”
“Because you didn’t want to know,” my mother said gently. “But now that you do, the question is… what are you going to do?”
I thought of the kids. Kyle’s wide smile when he talked about rockets. Astrid’s giggle when she hugged Corine’s leg and refused to let go. I hadn’t seen them in weeks. They were in New York with her. I used to use work as an excuse. Now? I had none left.
“I’m going to be their father again,” I told her.
“And Corine?”
I exhaled, closing my eyes. “I don’t expect forgiveness. But maybe… maybe I can rebuild a bridge through the kids. Maybe I can be a man she doesn't have to fear anymore.”
“Then start there,” my mother said. “But take care of yourself first. You can’t give them a healed version of you if you haven’t healed.”
That was the moment something inside me cracked open. I’d been spiraling quietly since the divorce, pretending I was fine, pretending it hadn’t gutted me. But it had.
So, I booked an appointment with a therapist. A real one. Not some executive counselor who throws platitudes at you in between meetings. I found someone who understood grief, guilt, and the weight of being the man who caused it.
But before that… I needed to see her. I needed to see them.
I stood up, grabbed my jacket, and called the pilot.
“Get the jet ready,” I said. “We’re going to New York.”
He didn’t ask questions. He never did.
As I packed, I stared at a photo I kept hidden in the drawer. Corine, Kyle, and Astrid—back when we were still pretending to be happy. Her smile in that photo was real though. I remembered the day. It was Kyle’s second birthday. She made the cake herself and cried because she messed up the frosting. But he didn’t care. He was happy. And so was she.
Now, all I could hope was that when I showed up at that penthouse, she wouldn’t slam the door in my face.
I wasn’t expecting a miracle.
But I’d take a second chance… even if it was just a moment to hold Astrid and remind Kyle I was still his dad.
That night, in the sky, I stared out of the jet window and let the tears fall freely. Quietly.
For the first time in years, I wasn’t running from the mess I made.
I was flying straight into it.