"You shine in emerald green," Barrington calls out to me as I descend the staircase in my parents’ home.

Please, kill me.

Daddy grins at me while Mom beams beside him, her hands clasped in front of her trim waistline.

"She sure is a vision," Daddy agrees as Barrington nods.

I wince as the toe of my sandal catches the carpet and sends a jolt up my leg. I pushed too hard in my PT session with Patrick yesterday and now I’m paying for it. My leg feels weak and sore, a tingling numbness spreading up my thigh and down to my toes.

I take the steps slowly, making sure the extra drag of my left leg doesn't catch the carpet and send me tumbling down the stairs to land unceremoniously at Barrington's feet. I can't think of a worse position to be in.

I let out a small sigh of relief when my sandals clear the last step, and my feet are firmly on the floor. The full skirt of the emerald green gown conceals that I'm not donning designer heels under the elegant satin folds. Instead, I’m wearing flat sandals from a random store at the mall.

"Darling," Barrington greets me, pressing kisses to each cheek.

"Hello Barrington." I wince at the coldness in my tone as Daddy catches my eye, his eyebrows dipping in concern.

Steeling my spine, I remind myself that I made the decision to accompany Barrington tonight. I agreed to help Daddy so I’m not going to make him feel guilty about it.

But as the pressure of Barrington's fingers digs into my shoulder, I also resolve that this will be the last time.

"Well, Barrington, I'd love to share a scotch and continue our talk, but you and Taylor should be on your way if you're going to catch all the cameras. And Taylor could use a well-placed photo at the moment." He laughs lightly to deflect from the truth in his words, but I hear them and my stomach clenches.

A well-placed photo? Does he really think that’s enough to save his company and reputation for being a gambler?

Unable to muster the energy for a response, I let Barrington whisk me outside and down the steps to his waiting Bentley.

Once I'm tucked inside and he's seated beside me, the temperature in the car dips to below freezing.

"Why do you need a photo? Are things that bad with your career?" His voice is sharp, and I force myself to look up. Meeting his eyes, the calculated edge glinting around his irises puts me on guard.

"Not at all," I reply calmly. "I just haven't been to many social gatherings over the last month and Daddy would like society to see that I really am okay. You know how much people worry. Besides, we’re focusing on improving the image of the Clarke Brand and saving Daddy’s company."

He jerks his head in a nod and starts the engine.

The silence between us is deafening, and this time the soft music flowing through the speakers can't drown it out. I feel every second that passes in Barrington's car as if it was an eternity, and I was spending it on a deserted island in shark-infested waters with a blistering sunburn.

That's how being in his presence is.

Painful.

Once we pull up to the event and Barrington tosses his keys to the valet, he helps me from the car. His hand automatically settles in the small of my back, and I have to squeeze his other hand to force him to slow his gait so I don't trip. The pressure on my spine increases, and I know he's displeased but would never make a scene in front of a crowd this size.

The moment we step onto the carpet ascending the stairs to the venue, the cameras are flashing, the paparazzi are calling our names, and microphones are twirling in front of our faces.

"Taylor! How are you feeling?"

"You look beautiful, Taylor!"

"You're a lucky man, Barrington."

"It's so good to see you guys out together!"

"When are you going to put a ring on it?"

Barrington colors beside me, ducking his head sheepishly.

I smile for the cameras, my hand raised in a wave, my concentration almost solely on putting one foot in front of the other. The material of my gown swishes around my legs, reminding me to take small, measured steps. I lean on Barrington for support and feel him stiffen beside me.

In a move so unexpected I don't even have time to react, his hand sweeps across my lower back and his arm encircles my waist. Then I'm falling, my back braced against his arm, as Barrington dips me low and plants his mouth over mine in a kiss so uninspired, it may as well be my hand.

The cameras flash, hoots and whistles sound around us, and I grow dizzy at the awkward angle and the press of Barrington's lips against my own.

Mere moments later, I'm tucked under his arm as he pulls me closer and leads me into the gala.

"What the hell was that?" I ask the moment we clear the doors. I have to restrain myself from dragging the back of my hand across my lips to erase the lingering taste of his stuffy cologne and expensive aftershave. Or slapping him across the face.

"I had to deflect," he says, his eyes glinting at me...in anger? "Why the hell did you come with me if you can barely walk? Do you know how that looks?"

My mouth drops open as I stare at him dumbfounded.

"If you remember correctly, I didn't even want to come tonight. Especially with you."

He tugs my hand impatiently, moving us into a corner and out of the direct flow of traffic. Mutual acquaintances wave as they pass, calling out generic greetings that lack warmth and thought.

"Taylor, I don’t have time for your antics. Just don't embarrass me tonight. I'm speaking with Dr. Harper and your father and I need his support, not to mention his capital, for a project I'm pitching. Tonight, stand by my side, or stay seated, but for God's sake, don't move around where people can see how you're limping like some gimp."

"I—"

"Enough," he growls, his voice so low I strain to hear it. His eyes are black and swirling with emotions too dangerous to delve into. "Just do what I say and your father can have his photo in the paper. Be thankful. At least people will think someone real, one of Savannah's best, still finds you desirable. At this rate, that's your only hope." He turns toward the gala and takes my hand roughly in his, placing it on his arm. "Now smile."

I bite back the retort sticking in my throat and swallow the tears surging forward.

I smile.

Because on some terribly painful level, I have too much pride to cause a scene. I know how it would play out. Taylor Clarke, Emotional and Irrational Months After Career-Altering Car Accident. Taylor Clarke, Desperate as Daddy’s Company Sinks. Taylor Clarke, Out-of-Control at Charity Event.

Swallowing my anger, I vow to shine tonight. Limp be damned, I will converse and dance and drink with the best of them. And tonight, after I wash off my makeup and crawl into my bed, I won’t ever socialize with Barrington Wade again.

That thought makes my smile turn genuine and I wave to an acquaintance by the bar.

If Barrington Wade thinks my only hope now, in a family like mine, in a society like ours, is to marry well, then he’s delusional. I don’t need him or anyone else. I have my own brand and I’ll be damned if I need to rub elbows with men like him to give that brand value.

That thought cheers me up and I snag the arm of another one of Savannah’s eligible bachelors for a dance, ignoring the pain in my leg, and Barrington’s cold stare between my shoulder blades.

Dinner seated next to Barrington is one of the longest meals of my life. I once sat in freezing ice water for fifty minutes with my hands poised overhead and my neck at an awkward angle with a snake hovering nearby for a photoshoot. That experience was better than this.

"Taylor, smile. You look like someone is holding a gun to your head," he chastises me in between the salad course and the entree.

“Is that all?” I ask, clenching my teeth.

"Sit up straight, you look like a hunchback," he mutters under his breath before dessert arrives. "And don't even think about the chocolate mousse."

I order the chocolate mousse and the New York cheesecake.

When Dr. Harper passes our table and asks for a dance, I’m desperate to decline the invitation. I don’t even make eye contact with Barrington because I know he’ll push me into the inviting doctor’s arms. But I’m exhausted. My earlier dances, motivated by spite, have taken their toll on my leg and I feel weak, unsteady. Pain blazes up my leg into my thigh and I have to swallow back tears as I place my hand in Dr. Harper’s. This is why I came tonight. To help Daddy, to help my family. After this, I’m done with these stupid events and Clarke image re-branding. So I’ll push through the pain and go out on a high note, knowing I did everything I could to help Daddy save Clarke Enterprises.

After two waltzes, my foot is numb and my leg throbs. Exhaustion sweeps through my limbs, and I almost hope I just pass out so the night can at least end for me.

"Hi love." Isabella sits on the chair next to me after my dances with Dr. Harper.

Barrington is a few tables away, schmoozing. It's disgusting to watch, and I'm grateful for the distraction Isabella provides.

"How are you, Izzy?" I ask, using her childhood nickname.

She wrinkles her nose, not realizing I mean it more as a term of endearment than a poke at our past. "Fine. You?" Her voice is chillier than it was moments before, and the fatigue settles deeper in my bones.

"I'm well, thanks. Healing, the entire process is taking longer than I—"

"Oh, there's Joyce. Joyce!" she calls out, waving to a girl we graduated high school with.

Joyce Grilla, dressed in buttercup yellow, her dark hair curled and pinned back delicately, turns slowly, her hand lifting in a wave when she spots us.

"Isabella, Taylor." She calls out, walking over to our table and pressing kisses to our cheeks. She slides onto the chair next to Isabella. "How are you girls?"

"We're wonderful. How are you, love? Isn't tonight's event just divine? And you arriving with Leo Santini! He's quite a catch." Isabella launches into a story about her first meeting with Leo, and Joyce laughs at all the right moments.

I settle back in my chair, watching their exchange, studying their body language and facial expressions. Two girls I've grown up with and known for so many years, and yet, it's like I don't know anything about them at all.

Here we sit, our gazes turning toward the man being discussed, the gown being dissected, or the victims of whatever scandal being rehashed. But what do Isabella and Joyce really want? What are they passionate about? What keeps them up at night, thinking and hoping and wondering?

"Leo looks positively gorgeous in that tuxedo."

"I know, right? I just bought him custom Berluti shoes. It's our one-month anniversary."

"Oh, my God! Already? You guys are so in sync, it's like you've been together for ages."

"Aw, you're so sweet."

I blink slowly, absorbing the words and the meaning behind them. They, like me, have been groomed to expect marriage to an eligible man as the pinnacle of life. However, unlike me, they’ve accepted this outlook. It’s so depressing and out of touch with reality, I want to faceplant into Isabella’s untouched tiramisu.

"I better go. I see Leo looking for me. Taylor, I'm so happy to see you here. You look wonderful."

"Thank you, Joyce. Have a lovely evening." I watch as she hurries back to her boyfriend.

"Ugh, she's so boring. Leo could do so much better." Isabella tosses down a linen napkin and waves her hand to catch the eye of a waiter.

Her words slam into me, and I cut my gaze to her sharply. She takes a sip from the champagne flute a waiter places in her hand and grins at me, her eyes glinting with mischief.

I used to see that look and nod, feeling like she and I were partners-in-crime, about to perform some type of prank or sneak out with our purses weighed down with liquor to borrow one of the boys’ boats and go joyriding. Together, we were the embodiment of the model reputation: wild, thrill-seeking, live-in-the-moment girls who were always dressed correctly and seen at the right parties.

But now, we're too old to be acting like that, to be talking so harshly about our peers.

Now, I have a scar and a limp and a different outlook.

Now, her words sound callous.

Now, I see her and feel sadness. And pity.

I no longer want to be viewed as Isabella’s bestie or confidante. I don’t want these shallow parameters of society to be my life. I want to be challenged and inspired. I’d like to give back and feel like I’m making a difference, or at least having an impact on someone’s life. I’d like to do something different, something more, than what everyone expects from me.

Tonight, after the gala, after I pull all the pins from my hair and scrub the makeup off my face, I vow to search for university education programs. To begin formulating a plan for my post-modeling career. Just because I didn’t major in education the first time around, doesn’t mean I can’t earn the college degree I truly want.