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Introducing ....

Nicole Richie as
Kelly Prescott

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𝐓𝐇𝐄 unmistakable hum of the JFK International Airport buzzed outside the terminal windows as Brooke adjusted her oversized sunglasses, sweeping a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear. She glanced beside her at Whitney, who matched her stride perfectly, the two of them walking in quiet sync. Just behind them, Kaitlin and Farrah wheeled their sleek designer suitcases, chatting in hushed tones, their voices tinged with both excitement and concern.

Behind them, Lana and Kathy shared a warm smile as they took in the electric New York energy. Beth paused just long enough to snap a candid photo of Mason pretending to push Landon into a luggage cart.

"Brooke," Whitney murmured as they exited the tunnel, her heels clicking against the polished floor, "did you see Amanda's update?"

Brooke nodded, her sunglasses barely concealing the flicker of worry in her eyes. "Yeah. Still no change with Miguel."

Mason, tangled briefly in his headphone cord, looked up, his easygoing demeanor giving way to concern. "That fight... I still can't believe it got that bad."

"We've seen tension. Rivalries. Even full-on dojo drama. But this?" Kaitlin shook her head, her expression grim. "This was something else. It was brutal."

"And Miguel's the one paying for it," Farrah added softly, her voice steady but full of emotion. "All because he tried to do the right thing. He showed mercy. And now he's in a hospital bed because of it."

"I can't stop thinking about Sam," Brooke said, her tone barely above a whisper. "How scared she looked. How empty she sounded in that voicemail."

"She's blaming herself," Lana said gently. "But she shouldn't. Miguel was trying to save everyone. He got caught in something far bigger than he ever should've had to face."

Beth hoisted her bag and gave Mason a pointed look. "You boys have a way of picking fights and breaking hearts in the process."

"Hey," Mason said with mock indignation, "I've never even looked at a railing funny."

"This wasn't just about karate." Landon said, wrapping his arm around Brooke. "It seems that Kreese guy twisted everything. He's toxic."

A familiar voice joined them from behind, calm and confident: "Johnny tried. He really did."

Missie caught up to the group, her presence grounding the moment with quiet strength. Her heels clicked softly on the tile, and even the surrounding travelers seemed to instinctively make space for her.

"Aunt Missie!" Kaitlin spun around and wrapped her in a tight hug.

"I took the next flight out," Missie said, holding her niece. "But don't worry—I saw Johnny before I left. He's shaken, but he's not alone."

Farrah stepped closer, looping an arm around her. "We're so glad you came. It was going to feel weird without you. And after everything with Miguel..."

Kathy adjusted her sunglasses, "We came for both, honey. To support you and to be together through this."

Beth nodded firmly. "You've all earned this trip. You've worked hard. And if—when—Miguel wakes up, he'll want to hear about something beautiful."

Whitney swallowed, her voice fragile. "It still feels strange... to celebrate."

Missie rested a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "This isn't about ignoring pain. It's about believing in light. In resilience. Miguel would want you to keep moving forward."

As they piled into the waiting black car, the city rose before them in golden afternoon light. Brooke leaned her head against the window, her mind a kaleidoscope of thoughts—glitter and gowns interwoven with the steady beep of hospital monitors.

Landon took her hand, his fingers warm and grounding. "We'll check in with Amanda tonight."

Brooke turned to him, managing a small, grateful smile. "Yeah. I just wish we could be in two places at once."

"We kind of are," Mason said from the opposite seat. "Because none of us really left L.A. Not in here."

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Johnny was back at rock bottom. He had lost everything—his dojo, his students, and the sense of purpose he had built. As he sat alone at a bar, nursing a beer, slowly sipped his beer, his eyes wandered around the room. Out of everyone there, one couple caught his attention. They stood close at the bar, laughing and holding hands—completely absorbed in each other. Watching them, Johnny couldn't help but think of Missie.

The past few months had actually been good—better than he thought he deserved. Missie had brought light back into his life. He had tried—really tried—to make it work this time. But after the fight, everything shifted. He blamed himself for what happened, and like always, that guilt pushed him into retreat. He started pulling away, and eventually, Missie left—again.

That was Johnny's biggest fear: losing Missie the same way he'd lost everyone else. He had fought hard to keep her, tried to fix things before it was too late. But when things got rough, when the walls closed in, he did what he always did—pushed her away.

Already buzzed and drifting further into his thoughts, Johnny ordered another round. The woman's laughter—vivid, carefree—echoed Missie's. It transported him to those long-forgotten nights filled with her radiant smile, her warm presence, and those blue eyes that once made him feel like maybe he wasn't so broken after all.

She was the one that got away. And no matter how hard he tried, he could never seem to hold onto her.

As he drank the last of his beer, Johnny turned toward the TV above the bar. The news was covering the school fight—Miguel's condition, Robby's involvement. He stared down at the counter, the weight of it all pressing on his chest.

Then, suddenly, a man in a Dodgers jersey stepped up and changed the channel.

"Hey!" Johnny slurred, his voice rough and unsteady. "I was watchin' that."

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The Plaza Hotel rose like a grand dame over the edge of Central Park, its gilded awnings and polished doormen signaling a kind of old-world luxury that always made Beth sigh with satisfaction. As the revolving doors whisked open and the group spilled into the marble-tiled lobby, all the fatigue from their red-eye flight momentarily dissolved into awe.

"This place looks like a palace," Kaitlin breathed, eyes sweeping over the ornate chandeliers and flower arrangements the size of small trees.

They rode the elevator up together, Missie leaning tiredly into the wall while Lana and Kathy chatted about show schedules and fittings. Beth hummed, scrolling through a group message with Amanda on her phone.

"She says Miguel's stable," she announced, glancing up. "Still no change."

Ding.

The elevator doors opened to the penthouse floor. The bellhop led them down a plush hallway with gold-trim accents, stopping at three adjoining suites.

"All right," Beth said, suddenly taking on her unofficial group mom role. "Girls in here." She gestured toward the suite with the best view—facing Central Park.

"Ladies in this one," Lana added, motioning to the second.

"And the boys," Kathy said with a smirk, "in the one furthest from the room service wine fridge."

"Rude," Mason muttered, unlocking his door. "But fair."

Inside Suite 1502 – Brooke, Whitney, Kaitlin, and Farrah's suite, the. girls burst into the room with a mix of groans and squeals. White orchids stood tall on the entry table, the scent of lavender and clean linen filling the air. A chandelier glittered above the grand living area, where four gift bags from the designer hosting Fashion Week waited with crisp envelopes and monogrammed ribbons.

Brooke dropped her bag with a sigh. "This view. I think I just fell in love."

Farrah flopped onto one of the plush beds, arms wide. "This bed. I think I'm never leaving."

Whitney walked to the window, her smile faltering as she looked over the city. "Feels weird, doesn't it? Being here. Playing dress-up while Miguel's in the hospital."

Kaitlin joined her, arms folding. "It does. But we're here. And he'd want us to live. To make it mean something."

Brooke nodded. "Let's do it for him, then. Take on Fashion Week like warriors."

Inside Suite 1503 – Missie, Lana, Kathy, and Beth's suite, Beth kicked off her heels the second the door shut and collapsed onto the nearest velvet couch. "My feet are filing a formal complaint."

Kathy uncorked a complimentary bottle of wine and poured them each a glass. "We all need a moment to breathe. Especially after this week."

Missie accepted her glass but barely sipped, instead settling into an armchair by the window. "I can't stop thinking about Johnny. About how alone he looked at that beach."

Lana placed a hand on her shoulder. "You did the right thing going to him."

"I just don't know if it's enough," Missie said quietly.

Beth raised her glass. "Then we keep showing up. For Johnny, for Sam, for Miguel. And for these girls—because we're not just here to sit in front rows and post selfies. We're here to keep them grounded."

Inside Suite 1504 – Mason and Landon's suite, it was slightly less pristine within five minutes of arrival. Mason's sneakers were already by the couch, his suitcase half-unpacked with clothes hanging off every surface. Landon, ever the neater of the two, was organizing toiletries in the bathroom.

"You know," Landon said from the doorway, "you might try folding something once in your life. Brooke was right—you live like a slob."

"Hurtful," Mason replied, sprawled on the couch with his phone, one sock dangling from the edge of the cushion. "And for the record, it's a system. I call it... 'creative chaos.' I fold under pressure, does that count?"

"Not even a little," Landon muttered, returning to the sink to line up his moisturizer like it was preparing for inspection.

Mason tossed a pair of socks at the wall. "This place is insane though, right? Like, I know we've stayed in some nice hotels before, but this one has a towel warmer. A towel warmer, dude."

"Yeah, I noticed," Landon said, walking out with a perfectly folded washcloth. "And the view? Empire State Building straight ahead. I'm tempted to just sit here all night and order room service."

"You mean you're not dying to hit Times Square and get mobbed by tourists and fake Spider-Men?" Mason joked.

Landon smirked. "Hard pass. But you go ahead. Maybe you'll end up in someone's blurry Instagram story."

Mason laughed and pulled open a mini bag of pretzels from the snack tray. "Honestly, I kind of want to go to one of those weird underground pizza places. The ones that only locals know about. You down?"

"As long as it doesn't involve a guy named Tony meeting us in an alley, sure," Landon said.

"Bro, that's half the charm," Mason replied, kicking his feet up. "Authentic New York sketchiness."

"You ever think about what it'd be like to live here?" Mason asked. "Like, full time? It would be so awesome dude."

"This actually feels like the kind of place that either makes you or eats you alive." Landon said

"Same with high school," Mason muttered with a chuckle.

Landon grinned. "Touché."

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The suite was bathed in soft golden lamplight, the sounds of the city muffled behind double-glazed windows. Brooke was lounging in one of the overstuffed chairs, still in her black satin robe, and her hair in a messy bun. Whitney and Farrah were flipping through the room service dessert menu on the bed, and Kaitlin was trying—unsuccessfully—to get the Bluetooth speaker to play anything other than Cyndi Lauper.

"I swear, this thing has a mind of its own," Kaitlin muttered.

"I'm not mad," Farrah said through a mouthful of chocolate truffle. "I've always felt Girls Just Wanna Have Fun is our true theme song."

Whitney grinned, "More accurate now than ever."

There was a soft knock at the door and everyone froze. Kaitlin blinked. "Is that room service? I didn't hit 'place order.'"

Brooke stood, suddenly alert. "You guys expecting anyone?"

Farrah shook her head. "Unless the ghost of Audrey Hepburn's here for a sleepover..."

Brooke padded over and cracked the door open—then let out a breathless squeal. "KELLY?!"

The other girls bolted upright as Kelly Prescott stepped into the suite, tossing her caramel-blonde waves over one shoulder and dropping her chic overnight bag with flair.

"You didn't think I was gonna let you all take on Fashion Week without me, did you?" Kelly said with a laugh.

"Kelly!" Kaitlin leapt up and ran to hug her, followed quickly by Farrah and Whitney.

"This is insane!" Whitney said. "We thought you were stuck in London!"

"I was," Kelly said. "But then a certain someone named Farrah let it slip you guys were staying at the Plaza, and I had enough points for a standby upgrade."

Farrah smirked and raised her hand. "Guilty."

Kelly looked around the room, arms crossed in mock offense. "And here I was expecting at least some confetti or maybe a mini red carpet."

"You're getting truffles and gossip," Brooke teased, pulling her onto the couch.

"You guys," Kelly said as she curled up beside them, "this suite is incredible. I feel like we've time-traveled into our dream board from freshman year."

"I know," Kaitlin said, pouring her a glass of rosé. "All that vision boarding at UCLA really paid off."

"But it's also been... intense," Whitney admitted quietly.

Kelly's expression softened. "Farrah filled me in. I was gonna wait for the right time to adk, but is he okay? Miguel, right?"

"He's stable," Brooke said, her voice calm but tired. "It's just—nobody really knows yet. It's like half of our hearts are still back home."

Kelly reached over and gave her hand a squeeze. "Well, the other half is here. And we're going to make sure it beats a little brighter. Together."

Farrah held up her glass. "To the girls who show up, even when it hurts."

"To Kelly," Kaitlin added, "for flying across the world to remind us who we are."

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Later, the girls collapsed in a cozy heap across the beds and couch cushions. The TV played reruns of Sex and the City on low volume while someone started braiding someone else's hair.

Kelly looked around the room, then turned to Brooke. "Okay... I have to ask. All this drama you mentioned in the Valley—this Johnny guy? The dojo stuff? I don't think I ever really knew what was happening. Who is he?"

Brooke hesitated for a second, then smiled softly. "He's... kind of a big part of my mom's past. Johnny Lawrence. He was her high school sweetheart. They reconnected recently."

Farrah chimed in, "He tried to do the right thing, to help the next generation. But this guy Kreese—"

"Total psycho," Whitney cut in. "He came back and basically hijacked everything. Turned it all into a war zone."

Brooke nodded, more serious now. "There was a huge fight at high school. Miguel—one of Johnny's students—got badly hurt. He's still unconscious. That's why everything feels so heavy."

"Whoa," Kelly whispered. "That's insane. And Kreese? He's still out there?"

"Yeah," Kaitlin said grimly. "Unfortunately. He's not just some washed-up sensei—he's dangerous."

"But Johnny's not Kreese," Brooke added quietly. "He's trying to fix what went wrong. My mom believes in him."

Kelly reached over and gave her hand a squeeze. "Then I do too."

"Best night of the year," Kaitlin murmured sleepily.

"No," Kelly corrected, her voice soft but sure. "Best night of our year."

Whitney reached over and squeezed her hand. "Miguel's going to wake up. Sam's going to be okay. We'll get through it all."

Farrah yawned and nodded. "But for now... this is our safe zone."

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The next morning, the Plaza buzzed with anticipation. An entire ballroom had been transformed overnight into a sleek, high-gloss runway haven. Rows of plush white chairs flanked the illuminated catwalk, surrounded by fashion editors, influencers, and buyers murmuring over iced lattes and glossy programs.

Backstage, Whitney, Kaitlin, and Farrah stood in a tight huddle, their names printed on VIP lanyards and stitched inside the linings of the garments now lined up and ready to take the runway. Kelly was practically vibrating with excitement as she buzzed between them, tablet in hand and a headset slung around her neck.

"You guys," Kelly gushed, "I don't think you understand how major this is. There are scouts from Elle and W in the front row. Kaitlin, your outerwear line? Everyone's talking about it. Farrah, your line—everyone wants it. And Whitney—that gown—people are calling it the next Met Gala moment."

Farrah twisted the edge of her clipboard and let out a breath. "I feel like I'm gonna throw up, cry, and scream into a pillow all at once."

"That's the sign of greatness," Brooke said, slipping into the backstage area with a proud smile. She gave them each a quick hug. "You've got this. Every single piece is stunning."

In the crowd, Missie, Lana, Kathy, and Beth were dressed to the nines in head-to-toe glam. Beth rocked a structured lavender pantsuit, Kathy dazzled in gold lamé, Lana kept it cool in all black with a pop of red lipstick, and Missie glowed in a silk champagne gown. They clutched show programs like proud stage moms at a Broadway debut.

Mason and Landon sat a few rows behind, fresh-pressed and fidgeting, their cameras out and ready. Landon looked up at the lights and whispered, "I can't believe they pulled this off."

"They're Pearsons," Mason said. "That's what we do."

Then the house lights dropped. A synth-heavy track rose over the speakers as the show began.

Kaitlin's line opened the show—structured knits in soft greys and jewel tones, reimagined trench coats, layered textures, and unexpected silhouettes. The crowd murmured with admiration as models glided down the runway in her signature oversized cowl necks and edgy ankle boots.

Farrah's line followed—a darkly romantic collection inspired by celestial maps and nocturnal botanicals. Flowing capes, sheer organza, and delicate beadwork danced under the lights, drawing gasps from the front row.

Then came Whitney's finale—a single model in a minimalist, breathtaking floor-length gown made from iridescent silk, the color shifting between lilac and moonlight. The crowd fell silent. Phones rose. Flashes popped. A few editors nodded slowly, already calculating cover placements.

Backstage, Kelly squeezed Whitney's hand so tightly she winced. "That gown just shut down the room."

As the final applause erupted and the models came out for the lineup, Whitney, Kaitlin, and Farrah stepped out at the end—not to walk, but to wave from the edge of the stage as the audience rose in a standing ovation. They clasped hands, overwhelmed with emotion, tears streaking through their flawless makeup as they took it all in.

Brooke ran up to them just after they stepped off stage, throwing her arms around them. "You did it! That was iconic."

Kaitlin, laughing through tears, whispered, "Is this what it feels like to have everything you've ever dreamed of come true?"

Just then, Whitney's phone buzzed. A text from Amanda lit up the screen: Miguel's awake.

She gasped, holding it up. "You guys—he's awake. Miguel's awake!"

Farrah covered her mouth. Kaitlin's eyes welled with fresh tears. Brooke pulled them all into a hug.

They had just conquered Fashion Week—but their hearts, in that instant, were soaring across the country to a hospital room in Los Angeles, full of hope and love.