The lights are blinding. Too bright. They dazzle and bedazzle so much so that I close my eyes again and drift back into the memory I was lost in before I got confused. My body feels like it's floating, as if I'm on a waterbed. You know, the ones that were popular in the nineties? I fight the urge to giggle at that thought.

So my memory. Right.

I close my SUV door behind me before striding into the studio. Pushing through the double doors, the bustle of the unfolding photo shoot halts briefly as members of the lighting and prop teams pause to look at me. At the sound of the producer, Fabio’s, voice, they all spring back into action.

Today, I have a photo shoot for Adriana Rose’s new line of couture gowns.

"Darling, you're here." Fabio strides forward, pressing air kisses to either side of my cheeks.

"I am," I answer, handing him my latte as he takes three large gulps.

"You have no idea how badly I needed that."

"It looks beautiful." I gesture toward the set. "And the lightning seems perfect."

He raises his eyebrows in my direction, the sun catching off the barbell pierced through his left brow. "You think so?"

"Absolutely. It complements the soft palette of this shoot well." I stride forward, depositing my bag on a random chair and greeting the rest of the team.

My eyes sweep over the set. A plush chaise lounge in soft peach sits in the center surrounded by various sized pillows in light cream and gold. The carpet is thick and soft. An overhead chandelier throws the light like a sun catcher. The entire set is transformed into a soft, fairytale setting of every little girl's dream bedroom. Actually, tilting my head to the side, I study the pillows and realize that my bedroom looked similar at one point.

"What do you think?" Adriana asks next to me and I jump slightly. I didn't even hear her approach.

"It's beautiful. Camilla did a wonderful job," I say, and it's the truth. The set is so beautiful, so sweet, and light and airy, it’s the perfect backdrop for the gowns I'll be modeling today.

"I want you in the organza lace gown first."

I turn toward the racks of gowns and the stylists who stand there, waiting. "Of course."

Striding over to them, we discuss my look, hair and makeup jumps in, and then I'm settling back across the chaise lounge, my arm properly positioned to look both casual and elegant. The curve of my neck is discussed at length as Fabio tips my chin in several directions on Kenny's commands. Finally, once the pose is painstakingly achieved, Kenny begins to shoot.

And with him behind the lens, I relax enough internally to call forward the persona the world thinks I am. I transform into Taylor Clarke, Pierre Kent model, and the new face of Adriana Rose's Fashion House.

In this moment, I am a model. I am confident, strong, independent. And it has nothing to do with the beautiful gowns, it’s everything else. An inner knowledge that I can do this, that this is my calling.

The scene shifts, the lace gown disappearing.

I remember now; I wasn’t wearing a lace organza dress. No. It was sapphire and paired with strappy, silver heels. I was with Barrington. Groan. Barrington Wade is the worst.

As soon as he closed whatever deal he was manipulating, he ushered me out of the gala and to his waiting car, barely glancing at the valet. I muttered “douche” under my breath and his eyes had swung wildly to mine, the anger in his irises barely contained.

I swallowed my laugh, recalling Daddy’s face when he asked me to attend the event with Barrington. His expression had been hopeful, grateful.

Lowering myself into Barrington’s ride, I managed to keep my mouth shut but my toes tapped out a beat on the floorboard, excess energy running off of me in waves.

Fragments of clarity return, and I struggle to keep my eyes closed against the lights that blind me.

Barrington slid into the seat next to me and started the engine.

My mood soured further as I was forced to breathe in his cologne for the entire ride home. We were several traffic lights from the turn to my parents’ house when it happened.

Yes, that's right.

The dark blue SUV. Two men inside. Beautiful men with chiseled jaws and angular faces. Particularly the one in the passenger seat. Now, why do I remember things like this? Here I am, hating it when people comment on just my looks, and yet that's what I remember of them. Of him. God, it’s so incredibly shallow of me and yet, I couldn’t help but get lost in his eyes for a moment. A moment that stretched too long as I realized too late that the SUV ran the stop sign. Panicking, I reached out for Barrington’s arm as he simultaneously slammed on the breaks and cut the steering wheel to the left.

The stranger in the SUV stared at me, his eyes sparkling like jewels. Bright green. They were wide, panic rippling across his face. His mouth was yelling something, his hand splayed out in front of his face, as if he could stop the course we were on by throwing out his arm to save me.

They crashed directly into the passenger side of the Lamborghini. I felt the impact as my head whipped toward Barrington before slamming into the passenger window. My hands clutched at air, reaching for something steady to grab onto. Next to me Barrington let out a string of curse words and yells. I closed my eyes at some point, felt the car spin and spin and spin at a dizzying rate. The copper taste of blood filled my mouth, and a pain so sharp it ached bloomed along my abdomen, stinging into my thigh.

The airbags deflated, and the car felt suffocating.

I couldn't breathe. Couldn't muster enough breath to fill my lungs. Couldn't move.

Around and around and around we spun.

And then blackness.

Silence.

My memory.

Peach.

Cologne.

Organza lace.

Nothing.

Until the lights.

The lights that dazzle and bedazzle.

"Taylor. Taylor. Do you know where you are?"

Hmm?

"Ms. Clarke, can you hear me?"

Yes.

"Can you open your eyes?"

My eyelids feel so heavy, as if an elephant is plopped down comfortably on each lid. I struggle to open my eyes and feel my eyelashes flutter the tiniest bit.

"She's coming around."

I wrinkle my nose and am surprised that my entire face feels frozen. Stiff. Sort of how Isabella describes the immediate aftermath of Botox. Oh God. I didn't let her talk me into Botox, did I? With my luck, I'll have an allergic reaction, and end up on one of those reality TV shows about when plastic surgery goes wrong. I want to laugh at the thought, but first I'll scold Isabella for her meddling ways.

Just as soon as I get my eyes open.

Squinting, my eyelids crack open and blinding lights meet my gaze briefly before being blocked out by a figure.

"I'm Dr. Woo," the doctor says gently, his laugh lines crinkling around his mouth. "We're very relieved you're awake."

You are?

"Do you know where you are, Taylor?"

Yes, plastic surgery gone wrong. Starring on a reality TV show. When I turn my head away from the kind doctor's eyes, I'll look directly down the lens of a camera. Except I'd bet my last dollar my favorite photographer, Kenny, won't be behind it.

"You're in Ashby County General Hospital. You were in a car accident."

Huh? I try to open my mouth to refute this, but no sound comes out.

"Can you get Ms. Clarke some water?" Dr. Woo asks someone, and I hear receding footsteps.

"An SUV ran a stop sign and hit your car."

Oh, my God. The two men in the blue SUV. The chiseled jaw and sparkling green eyes and—they were real. Not just a memory. Not just a dream.

"Are they okay? Is Barrington alright?" I manage to croak out.

"They're all fine. Your injuries were the most complicated."

My breath freezes in my throat at his words and a ripple of panic moves up my spine.

"Am I – am I okay?"

Dr. Woo sighs heavily. "You had to have emergency surgery, but your prognosis for a full recovery is extremely favorable."

"I had surgery?"

Someone in the room titters, and Dr. Woo's face transforms, throwing the person a death glare.

Silence.

"You did. You're on a lot of pain medication right now but when the medication subsides, you will be in extreme discomfort."

"What?" My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth and I feel like I’ve swallowed a cotton ball. I wiggle my toes but don’t feel any sensation. Oh my God, am I paralyzed? The thought strikes extreme fear in the pit of my stomach and I struggle to catch a breath. I flick my fingers and clench my hands and yet it’s as if my body is responding in slow motion. My heart beats furiously in my chest as panic seizes me, adrenaline spiking in my bloodstream.

A beeping sound rings out furiously, fueling my panic.

"Ms. Clarke, you’re okay. Breathe. You’re okay.”

My eyes widen as air finally fills my lungs and the kind Doctor’s voice fills my head, quieting my thoughts which ricochet at a dizzying pace inside my mind.

“You had a severe amount of internal bleeding due to a spleen laceration. We had to give you several blood transfusions. I know this is a lot to take in, and I'm here to answer any questions you may have. Is there someone I can call for you?"

I wrinkle my forehead. My parents aren't here?

And then I remember; after I left for the gala, they flew to California to visit old friends. Daddy’s college roommate Garry and his wife Cindy. That’s why I’m staying at their home this weekend, because they’re going out of town.

I close my eyes again.

Stupid Barrington and his stupid gala.

"No." I shake my head.

"Why don't you rest for a while? Let's see if we can get you drinking some water." He holds a cup with a straw bent toward me below my chin. "And then we'll talk."

"Okay." I agree, shakily. I clench my fingers, relieved to see them twist in the bedsheets even though all of my senses, even touch, are dulled. Leaning forward, I take a sip of the cool water, letting it wash away the taste of pennies in my mouth.

The only person I want to call in this moment is Ria. But I can't do that to her, put her through more anxiety and stress and worry.

I can call my friend Isabella, but I doubt she’ll answer at this time of night. She’s probably out at an after party.

So really, there's no one to call.

How's that for the life of a supermodel?