Farrah Rochon - Runaway Attraction

Bailey’s eyes connected with his in the rearview mirror and she smiled. Thank goodness for her family. As much as she begrudged their zealous overprotectiveness, she would not have survived this ordeal without their support.

Bailey sucked in one last cleansing breath as Daniel got out of the car and opened the back door. She clasped the hand he held out to her.

“Look, Bailey.” Daniel hesitated, his eyes darting to the garage’s exit. “I meant what I said. You can do this. But remember that you don’t have to. Just say the word and we’re out of here.”

“Backing out is not an option.” She gave her brother a firm nod. “I’m ready.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.” She squeezed his hand. “I need to do this, Daniel. I’m done hiding. I want to show the world that I’m not broken.”

Especially the person who attacked me...who is still out there.

Bailey couldn’t ignore the streak of alarm that raced through her body at the thought that her attacker was still at large—and possibly even among the reporters gathered.

Calling on the resilience she used in the cutthroat world of modeling, Bailey put her fear in check and took a moment to check her appearance in the car’s gleaming exterior. The pleated chocolate slacks and cream-colored turtleneck underneath her favorite belted, rust-colored peacoat from RHD’s fall collection suited her personality much more than the glammed-up fashions she wore when strutting across a runway.

Satisfied with the image reflecting back at her, she turned to her brother.

“Well, let’s get this show on the road,” she said with an overly bright smile. She could tell by the tension bracketing Daniel’s mouth that he saw right through her false optimism.

They started for the plaza at Lincoln Center, where a collection of reporters and cameramen waited. A podium had been set up in front of the fountain, with the Metropolitan Opera House as the backdrop. There was a hum of excited energy buzzing around the courtyard, which only served to ratchet up Bailey’s nerves.

Before the incident back in September, she’d thrived on dealing with the press, always ready to flash them a smile as they covered her rise to stardom. But now trepidation pebbled her skin at the sight of them gathered there. She resented the vulnerability the press exposed within her, the outright terror she felt at having to face their questions.

Her entire family stood just to the right of the podium. A lump formed in Bailey’s throat at their show of support, ready to act as a wall of defense between her and the media.

Her mother, former fashion model Lila Hamilton, broke away from the pack, striding across the plaza in her signature six-inch heels and a chic cashmere sheath.

“How are you feeling?” her mother asked, rubbing a soothing hand along Bailey’s arm. “You don’t have to do this, you know,” she added, not giving Bailey the chance to answer her question.

“I already tried that,” Daniel said. “She’s determined.”

The concern on her mother’s face nearly did Bailey in, but she couldn’t allow it to deter her. She gave her a peck on the cheek. “I’ll be okay,” she reassured both her mother and herself.

Still holding hands, they continued the last few yards to where the others were gathered. Bailey nodded to her father, patriarch of the family and head of Roger Hamilton Designs, who they’d all agreed would be the one to read the prepared statement to the press. He stepped up to the podium, which had at least a dozen microphones attached to it.

“Thank you all for coming,” her father began. “The purpose of this press conference is to clear up the misinformation that has flooded the media since Fashion Week. As you all know, my daughter Bailey was meant to be the lead model for Roger Hamilton Designs this year. Due to unforeseen circumstances, she was unable to model during RHD’s show. There has been much speculation over the cause of her absence, but I want to assure—”

“Bailey, have you been in rehab?” one reporter called out.

Instant rage flashed across her father’s face. Bailey put her hand on his shoulder, halting his retort. “Let me answer them.”

“Absolutely not,” he said with a firm shake of his head.

“Bailey,” her eldest brother, Kyle, warned. She turned to her family, noting the concern on the faces of her mother and her sister, Brianna. Daniel and Kyle both looked as if they would relish doing bodily harm to the reporters.

Bailey turned back to her father. “Remaining silent won’t do me any favors. They won’t be satisfied until they hear directly from me.”

It was more than evident that her father would rather face a den of hungry lions than let her face these reporters, but he reluctantly stepped aside.

Bailey surreptitiously dried her clammy palms on her wool coat before gripping the sides of the podium. Cameras flashed in rapid succession, making her happy that she had kept her sunglasses on. But Bailey refused to hide behind them any longer. She refused to hide behind anything.

She took off the sunglasses and placed them on the podium.

“First, I would like to thank you all for coming.” Her voice was strong and didn’t waver, a mark in the plus column. “When I suggested this press conference, the original plan was to have my father read a prepared statement. But you all are not here to listen to a prepared statement—you’re here to ask questions.”

The reporters started, but she held both hands up.

“However, let me first say this. I have heard a number of theories about my ‘sudden disappearance—’” she made air quotes with her fingers “—during Fashion Week. Everything from entering rehab for drug and alcohol addiction to going to South America for plastic surgery. Let me assure you that I have never used an illegal substance in my life, and the one time I tried to drink anything stronger than champagne I became sick to my stomach.”

“What about the plastic surgery?” asked Nathan Porter, a columnist who had covered RHD’s fashion shows for years.

It stung that a man she’d known since she was a teenager hanging around the RHD studios had the audacity to ask such a question. She pasted on her most flattering smile as she directed her answer to him.

“Forgive my conceit, Nathan, but there is nothing a plastic surgeon could do to improve this face.”

She knew her self-important rejoinder would garner laughs. Bailey had a reputation of being one of the most unpretentious models in the industry. That praise had been delivered by some of the same fashion writers, bloggers and photographers standing before her. These people knew her; they’d helped her get to the brink of superstardom, where she felt herself teetering precariously. She wouldn’t go as far as to call them friends, but when you saw the same faces at every fashion event, you couldn’t help but form an amiable kinship.

The camaraderie Bailey was feeling dried up with the very next question from a contributor to New York’s most popular fashion and beauty blog.

“What about the bag of cocaine that was reportedly found on you the night you disappeared?” the man asked.

“Yes, what about the cocaine, Bailey?”

“How long have you been using?”

“Is it true that you almost overdosed?”

“Why did you stay away for so long?”

“Have you been in rehab?”

The barrage of hostile questions smacked her in the face, causing her to take a step back. Fingers of panic clawed up Bailey’s throat with every ugly inquiry hurled her way.

“I...I was suffering from exhaustion,” she stammered, using the excuse her family had decided upon while she was hidden away in the Virgin Islands.

“Who’s your supplier, Bailey?”