The Jilted Heiress' Return to the High Life - Chapter 537

Chapter 537:

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“Mom!” Natasha shouted, rushing forward and wrapping the woman tightly in her arms.

Alina was momentarily stunned, her eyes brimming with emotion as she gently stroked Natasha’s back.

“Mom’s here,” she murmured.

Corrine and the others remained by the car, watching the mother and daughter reunite.

“What kind of perfect ending could ever make up for the hardships they’ve endured?” Karina said emotionally, adjusting her sunglasses as she held back tears and turned away.

“As long as they keep looking ahead, they’ll see brighter days,” Jolene responded softly.

Before her words could settle, a swarm of reporters with cameras and microphones surged forward, encircling Natasha and Alina without warning.

Corrine narrowed her eyes, anger flashing in her gaze.

“Alina, you were convicted of murdering your husband years ago. Now that you’re out, what are your plans for the future?” one reporter asked.

“You were husband and wife. What kind of deep-seated hatred drove you to kill your husband and dismember him?” another pressed.

“While serving your time, did you suffer from inner torment? Did you ever truly repent?” a third reporter jumped in.

The barrage of questions was like sharp knives, mercilessly reopening the wound in Alina’s heart. She trembled uncontrollably, her face turning ashen. Instinctively, she lowered her head to avoid the cameras, but the reporters were relentless, eager to capture every detail of her expression.

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“You confessed and served your time, yet never spoke of the crime’s details. Is there more to the story?” a reporter asked.

“Sorry, she can’t answer your questions,” Corrine interjected, stepping forward decisively.

She pushed through the crowd, leading Natasha and Alina away. The reporters, persistent as ever, followed closely, surrounding their car and making it impossible to move.

Karina cursed under her breath.

“What do we do now? We can’t just stay here and let them wear us down,” she said in frustration.

Corrine’s gaze hardened as she surveyed the reporters who had appeared out of nowhere. Her expression was unreadable, her eyes icy as she stared down the journalists encircling the car.

Just as the situation seemed intractable, a group approached. Leading them was a man in a black leather jacket, radiating authority and menace.

“Miss Holland,” he respectfully called out, approaching the car.

“And you are?” Corrine asked, scrutinizing the man before her.

“My name is Jerome Hopkins,” the man responded.

“Mr. Nate Hopkins was concerned about potential trouble, so he instructed me to watch over you discreetly.”

A wave of relief washed over Corrine.

“Thank you,” she said, softening her stern expression.

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