"You’re getting there, Taylor," Patrick, my physical therapist, says, tapping his fingers against the clipboard with my exercise sheet pinned on top. He increases the incline on the treadmill, and a sliver of fear grips my stomach that I might fall, but after a few paces, the fear recedes, an excitement replacing it. I'm walking. Like speed walking. Even though my doctors and Patrick reminded me several times that my limp will heal once I strengthen the muscles and tendons in my leg, it’s been hard to believe them when I catch sight of the limp daily or feel my left foot dragging behind my right with each step I take.

"You're doing great."

"You can increase the pace," I say.

He eyes me for a moment before pressing the button. The speed increases, and I match the pace again, my arms pumping at my sides.

After several minutes, I nod at him to add more speed, but he shakes his head. "Don't get ahead of yourself; you'll risk injury. That's enough for today. You did good." He lowers the incline and slows the pace as I practically crawl into a cool down.

So many simple things I once took for granted, like walking and having a smooth, unblemished stomach, I now hold with a deeper level of respect. Wouldn't it be lovely to hop on a bicycle, a cross-body bag holding one of Rupi Kaur's books of poetry, and head into Kindred Spirits to spend an afternoon devouring words and licking sticky icing from my fingertips? That’s how I used to spend Sundays, back when I sought out the life of the living. These days, I’m still hiding out at my parent’s place although I’ll admit, having coffee with Carter the other day, was nice. It reminded me that I used to be a social butterfly. And enjoyed it, too.

"You're all done." Patrick's voice interrupts my mental bicycle ride and I blush.

"Thanks, Patrick."

"Don't get discouraged; you really are making progress. What you experienced was traumatic for your body, and you need to give yourself time to heal."

"I know," I all but huff out. I know exactly what it’s like to put in endless hours at the gym and slowly build muscle but before, it was for my career. Now, it’s for my health. You’d think the latter would be the more encouraging reason to keep going but instead, I find myself easily discouraged and quick to snap. After my outburst, I feel foolish and guilty for being frustrated when I know I’m lucky that the damage wasn’t worse.

Patrick offers me a sympathetic chuckle and hands me my water bottle before heading to his next client.

I dawdle near the treadmills, watching the beautiful, fit people work out around me. I wanted to complete my PT at the center in town, but Daddy seemed disturbed by the idea. Too many people gawking, was the response he gave me. Instead, Mom signed up at an exclusive gym outside of Savannah that also has full time physical therapists on staff.

I walk over to the smoothie bar and order a spinach and kale smoothie with vanilla protein, some berries for sweetener, and hemp seeds for grit.

Plopping down at one of the colorful tables, I pull The Beautiful and the Damned from my gym bag.

I smooth my hand over the page but before I read any of the words, my mind wanders back to my coffee with Carter.

He was nothing like I expected. Gorgeous, yes. Charming, sure. But I didn't anticipate his quick wit, sense of humor, or the intelligence that sparked just behind the warmth in his sea-foam green eyes. After meeting him so briefly in the hospital, knowing him and his friend had been drinking before hopping in the car late on a Friday night, I imagined him to be more like everyone's favorite fraternity brother who never outgrew Friday night keggers. Instead, Carter surprised me. After the initial awkwardness and his sincere apology, we talked about books. Literature. Writers and poetry. We discussed my work with the Big Brothers and Big Sisters of Georgia. He told me about his family.

He watched my eyes, his lips twitching when I said something that sparked his interest, and he asked interesting and thought-provoking questions. With Carter, I wasn't a mere object in a room offering an aesthetic component; I was a person, someone with opinions and passions that he not only wanted to hear about, but encouraged me to talk about.

If it was a date, it would have been the best first date I've ever been on.

I bite my lip to keep from smiling. As if Carter would ever want to go on a date with me. I’m damaged goods these days. And emotionally, I’m all over the map. One moment, I’m grateful all my modeling contracts haven’t disappeared and I still have an income. The next, I’m hysterical over the scar on my stomach. A minute later, I’m flooded with guilt for not being more grateful that my injuries aren’t serious. And then, I’m desperate to move back to my own place even though my parents are concerned about me for good reason.

I brush my fingers over the page again when a shadow falls over my table, and I look up into the dark eyes of Barrington. Nerves skate down my spine at seeing him as dread squeezes my chest.

"Taylor," he greets me, bending down to brush a kiss across my cheek. He takes the chair across from me and grins, waving at a passing friend. "How are you, darling?"

I sigh, reminding myself to be polite. "Doing much better, thanks. Patrick says I'm making a lot of improvement, and even though it doesn't always feel like—"

"I'm glad to hear you're recovering. You look beautiful."

I take a gulp of my green smoothie, the extra helping of kale tasting less bitter than Barrington's words.

He leans forward, his elbows resting on the table now. A strand of hair falls across his forehead, and this strikes me as odd since it's out of place, and nothing about Barrington Wade is ever out of place. "Any word on your contract with Adriana Rose?"

"Excuse me?"

"Do you still have your contract with Adriana Rose?"

“And that is your business because?” I snort, trying to sort out his line of thinking. Although I'm no longer the exclusive face of the fashion designer, she didn't drop me completely but I don’t understand how that information is relevant to Barrington.

“She dropped you, huh?”

I roll my eyes. "No, she didn’t drop me. I have an altered contract."

Barrington’s shoulders dip in relief. "Good. That’s good. I'll need you to accompany me to the Frill's Charity Gala this weekend."

I swallow my smoothie, a lump forming in my throat as tears unexpectedly smart the corners of my eyes. That's it? He cares more about my modeling career and his appearance than he does about the fact that I nearly died in a car accident? I mean, he was in the car with me! Doesn’t he have any feelings about that? I know I shouldn’t be surprised, not by Barrington. But his words sting nonetheless and hurt I can’t fathom crawls up my throat, burning behind my nose. Jeez, I’m an emotional mess.

"I'm not planning on attending that event."

Barrington waves his hand dismissively, his fingers fluttering. "Nonsense. It's for a good cause, and I know how much you love those." His voice hardens, and I inch back in my chair. "Besides, your father told me you're not getting out much. He thinks my taking you will be good for you."

"You spoke to my father?" I clear my throat but for some reason, the fact that my father approved this without my consent causes the burn behind my nose to intensify. I blink faster. I will not cry in front of Barrington. I will not give him the satisfaction of knowing he affects me at all.

"Of course, darling." He stands slowly, leaning closer to tuck an errant hair behind my ear in what looks like a sweet gesture, but causes my stomach to tighten. "Don't wear black unless you plan on tanning before Friday. I'll pick you up at six. Hunter!" he calls out to a friend as he strides past my chair, his cologne clogging my throat.

Swiping my smoothie off the table, I tuck my book into my gym bag, and limp as quickly as I can out of the gym. Once I'm in the safety of my SUV, I lean my forehead against the steering wheel and let the tears come.

Fat, angry, hot tears that fall on my cheeks and run down my face until they drop onto the leather seat.

How is it possible to have so many people swarming around the logistics of your life, making decisions and guiding you daily, but to still feel completely alone and isolated in a way that aches? Why would Daddy agree to the event without discussing it with me first? I know he’s trying to change the spin on the Clarke Brand but we’ve always had open lines of communication before.

And why the hell am I crying over something Barrington Wade said?

God, I’m a mess sometimes. I can’t seem to get a handle on my own emotions and I hate how that makes me feel. Whiny, irrational. Childish.

I pick up my cell phone and scroll through my contacts, wishing there was someone I could call who would understand. My fingers hover over the call button when Carter’s name and number appears on my screen. We exchanged numbers at the bakery and while I doubt he would understand at all, I have the strangest urge to call him anyway. Maybe because I think he would be compassionate. At least, I don’t think he would judge me. Something about him, his easygoing nature, his calmness, soothes me in a way I don’t entirely understand yet desperately seek in this moment.

Instead, I send him a text message.

Me: Hey. Want to grab a coffee later?

Is that weird? Me messaging him first? I shake my head, slipping my phone back into my gym bag. I dash the tears away from underneath my eyes. No, why shouldn’t I be able to message Carter? We did come to some strange understanding that we both want to pursue a friendship. I had a good time with him and right now, in this moment, I could use a friend.

"Daddy."

"Taylor, come on in." Daddy says, surprise etched in the way his eyebrows raise when he sees me standing in the doorway to his home office.

I enter the room, closing the door behind me.

"Is everything okay?"

"No." I take a seat across from him, the smooth leather buttery against the backs of my thighs.

"What’s wrong?” He peers at me over his glasses, his eyes full of concern.

I falter. Swallowing thickly, I reorganize my thoughts. I need to take back some measure of control over my life. I really need to move back to my townhome. I need to make certain decisions for myself, like who I date or who the media at least thinks I date. I can't have him promising me to Barrington Wade for a stake in his company, even if business is failing.

“Daddy, why did you tell Barrington I could escort him to the Frill’s Charity gala?”

"What?"

I sigh, picking at the hem of the light blue sundress I slipped into after PT. "I don't want to go to the gala with Barrington on Friday. I don’t understand why you told him I would be his date. Especially without talking to me about it."

His brow furrows. He removes his glasses and massages his eyes with the fingers of his left hand. “You’re right. I should have discussed it with you.”

“Why didn’t you?” I lean forward in my seat, trying to catch his eyes. A pang of guilt swells in my chest. He's tired. Exhausted even. But still, I don’t understand why he’s intently pushing me toward Barrington. I mean, business can’t be that bad, can it?

“I’m worried about you, Taylor. You’ve been moping around this house for weeks. Other than seeing Ria and going to your PT sessions, you’re barely leaving the house.”

“That’s not true.” I say, defensively. Even though his observation pretty much sums up my life. “I had coffee with a friend the other day.”

Daddy’s eyes soften. “I thought it would be good for you. I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. But I’m not going with him.”

Daddy winces. “I’m losing the business.”

“What?”

He sighs and the whoosh of air leaving his mouth hangs between us. “I didn’t want you to find out this way.”

“Find out what?”

“The truth. I’ve got a bit of a gambling problem, Taylor.” His words are low but firm, his eyes finally meeting mine. “I’ve gambled away much of Clarke Enterprises and now I owe people, a lot of people, a lot of money. Barrington’s a rising star with his degree from Yale and his family connections. He’s been helping me pull things together, helping me close deals I need, we need. In return, he’ll be taking over more shares in the company. That’s why this arrangement, at the moment, is mutually beneficial. I’m sorry I didn’t ask you about being his date but,” he leans forward, resting his elbows on his desk and dropping his head into his hands. When he looks back up, his eyes are heavy with shame. “Would you please escort him to the Frill’s gala? We’re trying to put our best foot forward. If Barrington can keep closing these deals and if the media continues seeing the two of you together, well, it’s helping people trust in our name again. Plus, you really do need to get out more, sweetheart. You’re too young to keep yourself closed away like this.”

I lean back in my chair, absolutely stunned. Gambling? Since when? I mean, I know Daddy was a social gambler when the time called for it but I never thought he had an actual addiction. I run my fingers through my hair, my knuckles snagging on several tangles. And what is he talking about, keeping myself closed away?

“Since when have you been gambling?” I ask the more important question.

“A long time, honey.”

“How bad?”

“About as bad as it gets.”

I look out the window, staring at the greenery outside. How didn’t I know this? How didn’t I realize that Daddy is a gambler? Shame settles in my stomach, both for my own lack of awareness and for Daddy’s lack of self-control. “Then why did you go to California to visit your friends?” I ask, annoyed that Daddy took Mom on a holiday when his business is slipping away from him for his own poor choices.

“We didn’t go for a social visit. I went to ask Garry if I could borrow some money. I’m sorry, Taylor. I never wanted you to know about this.” Daddy hunches forward, his eyes tired, his expression pained.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?” I soften toward him, walking behind his desk to wind my arms around his shoulders.

He sighs again. “I hoped not.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? I can help you. I’ve got some savings and –”

“Absolutely not. Taylor, of course I appreciate your concern and desire to help. But can’t you imagine how shameful this is for me? I’ve always prided myself on taking care of you and your mother and now,” his eyes search the room as if they’re going to land on a magic solution, “now I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. But I’m trying, Taylor. I will turn this around. Please, if you want to help me, attend this event with Barrington. Smile for the cameras. I know he’s not your favorite person, but he could grow on you. He’s a good man, honest, a hard worker. He can provide for you.”

I blanch at his words. Are those the qualities he thinks I value in a partner? A hard worker who can provide for me? Why can’t I provide for myself? I’ve been doing it since I purchased my townhouse at twenty-two-years-old. The words are on the tip of my tongue but the phone rings and Daddy winces at the name that appears on the screen. I take a deep breath and squeeze his shoulders, “I’ll go to the event with Barrington.”

“Thank you, Taylor. Thank you.”

“Take your call.” I press a kiss to his temple. “I’ll see you for dinner.”

He nods, answering the phone. “Hello?”

I keep my shoulders thrown back and my head held high as I walk out of his office, but inside one more sliver of my heart crumbles.