Seated at the conference table, Taylor tapped the microphone and thanked everyone for coming.
“I’ve invited all of you here today, because recently it came to my attention that some highly personal information was leaked concerning my brief medical stay at Seattle Mercy, a hospital where I used to work as a surgeon. In order to mitigate inaccurate perceptions that would surely result if the media were to interpret those records without the input of medical professionals, I’m offering an explanation.”
As Rose listened to Taylor’s well-thought-out and brilliantly composed story, which detailed his amnesia of that fateful night and suggested that the drugs found in his system had stirred up psychological problems that he wouldn’t have otherwise had, she couldn’t help but catch the periodic murmuring of people in the crowd, whether from members of the press consulting one another on the questions they would ask, or residents ultimately alarmed that the man behind the pipeline destroying their home might perhaps be certifiably insane.
What bothered her most was the fact that on the whole, it didn’t seem like anyone was listening to Taylor, but rather fretting to themselves, and drawing the very conclusions Taylor had voiced he was concerned they would succumb to if they didn’t first hear him out.
Taylor came to the end of his speech then asked the press if they had any questions.
A fiery looking journalist in her thirties launched out of her seat, asking, “Do you still use drugs recreationally?”
Rose cringed for Taylor’s sake. Had the woman not been listening?
“Well, I never used drugs recreationally.”
“And you expect us to believe that?”
“There’s no evidence of drugs having been in my system before or after the incident, so yes, I expect you to believe me.”
Another journalist, a man, rocketed out of his seat in the fourth row, asking, “How can the people of Bellevue trust your decision-making abilities are sound when you have a history of drug use?”
Taylor didn’t even get a chance to address the outlandish question, because a third journalist hit in with, “According to the medical definition of psychosis, it’s not possible for someone suffering with it to stay stable without medication. Are you taking antipsychotics?”
“I can’t speak to the medical definition, but when I was released from the hospital, I was not considered psychotic any longer.”
“So are you taking antipsychotics?” she demanded.
“No—”
“Then how can you be mentally sound enough to make the important decisions behind managing the Starlight Energy Project?”
Rose could hear in Taylor’s tone how frustrated he was becoming, though she thought he was doing a fairly decent job of keeping a level head. The members of the press were attacking him outright, and soon he had no chance to answer as their questions turned into a rapid-fire assault on his sanity.
“Whoa, whoa!” Taylor called out. “One at a time, please! You there.”
As soon as he called on the man standing across the aisle, Layla and Carter stood up on either side of him.
“Isn’t it true,” he began in a confident voice that made Rose nervous for what might come next, “that you suffered a psychotic break last night and tried to murder Rose Cole?”
“No! Absolutely not! I was at the Hyatt—”
“Alone,” the man pointed out.
“This is ridiculous!”
“We received word that the security cameras at the Escala—your building—had been shut off so that the attempted killer couldn’t be caught on camera.”
“That’s accurate, but I didn’t do that!”
“Would you be willing to go in for psychological reevaluation as a measure of good faith before returning to work for Starlight?”
“Absolutely not! I had nothing to do with Rose’s attack, and there’s nothing wrong with my mind! I was drugged that night! I was the victim—”
“So it’s a conspiracy,” the reporter pointed out, implying that a symptom of Taylor’s psychosis was paranoia.
Unfortunately for him, he was so outraged that he didn’t pick up on the insinuation, but instead blurted out, “Did my father put you up to this?!”
“Calm down, Mr. Montgomery,” the reporter said smugly. “You’re starting to sound psychotic.”
The crowd chuckled and Rose didn’t know if she’d be able to stand this much longer. She wanted to scream or cry, but neither would help. She felt powerless in the face of stopping this, and though it crossed her mind to jump up and insist that Taylor hadn’t attacked her, she wouldn’t be able to argue against the fact that she was blind. How could she prove Taylor hadn’t done it when she hadn’t been able to see who did?
The reporter pressed on after Carter whispered something in his ear, which Rose knew about only because Jenny was narrating to her quietly all that was happening.
“You had various members of One World arrested, and when doing that failed to get them to back off, you went after Rose Cole even though she had already been blinded in her effort to stop you, isn’t that right Mr. Montgomery?”
Taylor sprang to his feet, raising his voice and asserting himself.
“I am on Rose Cole’s side. The real reason I called this press conference is to announce that, as a result of hearing Rose Cole out and reading through the proposal submitted to me through One World, I have hereby decided to relocate the Starlight Energy Project eight miles out where it will not threaten the Bellevue water tower should there be any mishap, leak, or spill during its construction or in the distant future.”
The crowd hushed, but no one was more surprised than Rose, who was on the brink of tears, laughing and marveling at the good news washing over her.
Jenny was whispering in her ear that Carter and Layla were shocked, but she couldn’t hear her over Taylor, who invited her to come up to the conference table.
As she made her way with Hector’s help, Layla kept shouting, “You only agreed because Carter Simmons threatened to expose you! Give credit where credit is due! How dare you!” She then turned towards the crowd and shouted, “One World didn’t do this. If you’re happy with anyone, it should be with me and Carter who worked so hard to make this town safe!”
Ignoring Layla, and trying not to feel stung that her former friend could attempt to plow over all of her hard work so easily, Rose focused on the victory she had earned as she stood next to Taylor behind the table and shook his hand, while cameras flashed at them from every which way.
“Rose Cole, the President of One World, and I will now sign a contract that outlines the Starlight Energy Project’s new route through Eastern Bellevue where virtually no one lives.”
As Taylor placed a pen in her hand and guided her to the signature line of the contract, Rose whispered, “Thank you.”
“It’s the least I can do,” he said quietly. “But the fight is not over, Rose. There’s so much more we have to do.”
That night, after the crowd had vanished and Taylor had driven her out to the stretch in East Bellevue where Davey Construction would begin to dig a brand-new trench in two days’ time, Taylor brought Rose back to the Escala so that she could shower and change into the purple Prada dress and black heels that he had bought her for this very occasion.
Dressed to the nines and buzzing with the thrill of their mutual victory, Taylor and Rose arrived at the most luxurious, five-star restaurant in all of Seattle, where he ordered a bottle of chilled champagne as soon as they sat down.
As they waited for their server to fulfill the order, Rose smiled at Taylor then sensed the bay windows to her right.
“Tell me about the view,” she asked and listened to Taylor draw in a deep breath.
“The view overlooks the Seattle nightscape,” he began, speaking in a low and deep tone that stirred up her deepest desire for him. “Beyond it is the canal, its water is reflecting the city lights, and there are a few sailboats out. In the distance you can see the sparse twinkling lights of Bellevu
e.”
The town she had finally saved, she thought.
Taylor took her hand just as their server returned with their champagne, two glasses, and a bucket of ice. After giving her a squeeze, he did the honors, popping the bottle and pouring two flutes, one of which he passed to Rose before lifting the other for a toast.
“To you, Rose. I hate to admit it, but you won.”
She laughed and said, “Oh come on. You like it a little.”
When his laughter quieted he said, “I did. I didn’t just like it, in fact. I loved it. I love you. I’m in love with you, and I couldn’t be happier.”
The words nearly took her breath away, and the smile on her face grew wide.
“I’m in love with you, too.”
Chapter Twenty One
When Rose woke the next morning she felt a strange mix of elation and dread. She almost couldn’t believe the Starlight Energy pipeline was going to be built far out in East Bellevue. It was the biggest accomplishment of her career, and there was nothing to fear. Taylor had signed the contract. This was happening. As thrilled as this made her, it wasn’t reason enough for her to forget the damning prognosis she had received from Dr. Fitzpatrick. Vital nerves behind her eyes were too damaged for Seattle Mercy to feel confident about giving her donor eyes. The board felt they couldn’t risk wasting two good eyes should her surgery go badly, and it would, according to her doctor. Taylor was acting as though he wouldn’t let Dr. Fitzpatrick’s opinion on the matter stop him. But Taylor’s determination to somehow secure donated eyes without the help of the hospital wasn’t exactly realistic, as far as Rose was concerned.
Opposites might attract, but Rose knew she and Taylor couldn’t be more different. She had been raised in a loving family, which had virtually no money. Because of this, she understood that life could be hard, it could be a struggle, bad things could happen to good people and sometimes a person had to weather the storm and accept that they had no control over when the skies would clear.
Taylor had been raised with a silver spoon in his mouth and had witnessed firsthand that money truly could buy just about anything. But when it came to buying someone’s eyes, Taylor was being downright delusional to think he could find a donor just by offering a price.
It wasn’t that Rose dreaded going in to see Dr. Fitzpatrick to run a few more tests and begin her physical therapy, it was that it was becoming hard to watch Taylor’s unrelenting optimism, when in her heart she knew she was blind and there would be no way to change that.
She would give anything to regain her sight. She wanted to believe Taylor. And because of this, a great conflict was rising in her chest.
Staying focused on her work with One World had been a great help in that it distracted her to a degree. On the other hand, working also made her aware of just how much her life had been changed when she lost her vision. Hector and Jenny had been a great help, but knowing that she couldn’t get a thing done without them because she couldn’t see was gut wrenching.
As if she didn’t have enough to deal with, in the back of her mind she was in a constant state of puzzlement at who had let themselves into the Escala that night to try to strangle her to death. Would they come back for her now that One World had succeeded at getting Taylor to move the pipeline eight miles out? Or would they give up? Had the attack been meant to scare her into giving up? Or had it been a taste of what would come if she succeeded?
It was this silent war brewing inside her that forced Rose from the bed as if she could escape it. Padding carefully down the hallway, she found the bathroom, stepped cautiously inside so as not to bump her shin or hip on the sink, toilet, or counter. When she reached the shower stall, she turned the dial until a hot stream of water was flowing, stripped off her tee shirt and panties, and stepped in.
As she washed, she was careful not to let the shower spray hit the gauze around her eyes, which made washing her face a real challenge. According to Dr. Fitzpatrick, she didn’t have to wear the protective gauze any longer, but having an idea of what she looked like without it had been reason enough to keep it on. She considered what she might be able to use as an alternative. Perhaps if she found a strip of silk from a scarf or something like that, she could fashion an eye wrap to look more like an accessory than a surgical bandage.
After washing her hair and doing what she could to shave her legs (Taylor had provided a Lady Gillette shaver in the stall, but every time she used it she accidentally cut herself, especially around her knees and ankles), she returned the shaver to the ledge, rinsed her legs, and stood under the hot stream to enjoy the water now that she’d thoroughly cleaned herself up.
As she stood there, she heard the door creak open and Taylor pad across the tiles.
“Can I join you?” he asked.
Smirking, she told him he could, and Taylor slid the glass door aside and stepped in, reaching for her hip to help her maneuver without slipping.
When he entered the shower stream, he began working a bar of lavender soap over her shoulders and neck then down her arms. At the same time, she felt for his bottle of shampoo, squirted a dollop into her palm, and then began massaging it into his hair, churning up a good lather.
“Can I ask you something?” she said, as she rinsed her soapy hands in the hot stream.
“What?”
“I’m not being negative, I just don’t see the point in going back to the eye specialist. I mean, what is the point really? So I can exercise my eye muscles into seeing better shades of black?”
Taylor let out a carefully measured breath.
“Don’t you want to do everything you can to improve your sight?”
“There is no sight, Taylor. I want to avoid getting my hopes up. I can deal with a disability, but I can’t deal with the emotional upheaval that comes with hoping for something unrealistic, because the letdown is more than I can manage.”
“When we were in Fitzpatrick’s office last time, he evaluated whether or not you’d be a good candidate for the hospital’s donor list. That’s a very different criterion than the one for the actual surgery. He just needs to run a few more tests to see what he will be working with when I find you a pair of eyes myself.”
“Taylor,” she sighed then breathed in a lung full of hot steam. “I think you need to manage your own expectations, as well.”
“You think I’m not going to be able to find you new eyes?”
She didn’t respond, but her silence was enough of an answer.
As he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closely against his hot, wet body, he said softly, “I’m moving a pipeline for you. The least you can do is play ball when it comes to your eyesight.”
She snorted a laugh. It was true. Maybe if she thought about jumping through the hoops with Dr. Fitzpatrick as something she was doing for Taylor as a means to thank him for signing her contract, it would be easier.
She would try.
They dried off, and as they dressed in the bedroom, she asked, “If these bandages aren’t necessary anymore, can you think of anything I can put over my eyes? I was thinking about a scarf or something, but I’m not sure how that would look. You’re way more fashionable than I am.”
He took a moment to consider her question, and as he did, she sensed he had stopped dressing to give the idea his full attention.
“I can ask my stylist,” he said finally.
“You have a stylist?”
“She’s one of my assistants,” he said through a self-deprecating laugh. “She’s the reason the Versace dress fit, the one I dropped off for you that day way back when we first met.
“Way back when we first met,” she mused, fastening her jeans closed. “It was barely three weeks ago.”
“Funny, it feels like a lifetime.”
Taylor put in a call to his stylist before they left his suite, and he told his limo driver to make a quick stop on their way to the hospital so that Rose could get a feel for his stylist’s ideas about what she could use to conceal her scarred ey
es.
His stylist, a woman named Greer who had received her master’s degree in fashion from FIT, was waiting for them outside her studio in downtown Seattle by the time they pulled up to the curb.
Taylor kissed her hello on the cheek then introduced Rose, and Greer invited them inside.
“I pulled together some options,” she explained as she led them to a table in the back of her studio. “There they are,” she said when they came to a stop in front of the table. “They are all double-eye patches. I took the classic eye patch idea, but strung two together and glued feathers on.”
“These are really beautiful,” said Taylor, helping Rose’s fingertips feel each patch.
“The first is covered in black feathers, and I trimmed them to the exact shape of the actual patches. The band is elastic, which I covered with black velvet. When you wrap it around the back of your head, you can pull your hair over it.”
To Rose’s touch, it felt quite nice.
“The bridge of the nose is a band of black velvet, as well,” she concluded before Taylor moved Rose’s hand to the next design. “The next is the same idea, except it’s eggshell white and the feathers aren’t trimmed, so they plume on top. And the last one is an earth-brown color with the features glued in a radial design, so that the plume fans over your eyebrows, temples, and cheeks.”
“What do you think?” Rose asked Taylor. “Which should I wear?”
“I think we should take all of them,” he said. “The black one is good for everyday. The white would look nice if you were wearing a cocktail dress. And the brown is a good option if you feel like switching it up.”
“Fantastic,” said Greer.
“Here,” said Taylor, picking up the black mask and helping Rose unwrap the gauze from around her eyes. As he pulled the mask over her eyes, Greer placed the remaining two masks into white boxes, which she then set into a shopping bag with her studio’s logo on the front.
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