I looked down at our joined hands. My own hand was elegant but strong. His hand was small, soft, and perfect—the future of everything I had built.
I pulled out my phone.
I hadn't opened my personal i********: account in exactly six years. The last post was a photo of me at a gala in New York, dressed in a gown that cost more than a car, looking like a beautiful, hollow doll for the Kensington brand. I looked at that girl now and didn't recognize her.
I opened the app. My follower count was still in the millions, a testament to the "Phantom Model" mystery that the fashion world still obsessed over. They thought I was hiding in shame. They thought I had been broken.
I decided to correct the record.
I selected a carousel of three photos.
The first was a shot from the cockpit during the
