Page 57 of The Edge Of Us

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.

Chapter 34

Corine

The morning of the Chanel runway at New York Fashion Week didn’t start with champagne or excitement like the magazines make it seem. It started with anxiety clawing at my throat and the taste of bitter memories on my tongue. The city buzzed beyond the penthouse windows, the world moving fast, unaware that my heart still carried bruises.

My son Kyle had clung to my waist before I left, whispering, "You’re going to look like a queen, Mommy." I held onto that.

Brittany had texted at 6:03 a.m.: "Today we shine. Don’t let the ghosts dim you."

She always knew what to say. We’d met at the facility when I couldn’t breathe through grief, and she was just a girl trying to claw her way out of darkness. We’d become sisters since. And now, we were walking Chanel. Together.

Backstage at the venue, the chaos was comforting in a strange way—stylists barking instructions, the scent of hairspray thickin the air, the mechanical click of heels across concrete. Brittany met me near the dressing stations, already in her cream robe, her hair in soft rollers.

“You look like you slept three minutes,” she said, squeezing my hand.

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