🕊️ The Turkey Test

The centerpiece of the table was a monumental, golden-brown turkey, but all eyes were on the three people seated closest to the head: Ridge Forrester, Brooke Logan, and Taylor Hayes.

The decision to host a combined Thanksgiving dinner at the Forrester main house had been Steffy’s. It was her final, optimistic effort to prove to the entire family—and perhaps to herself—that the eternal triangle, the exhausting ‘Bridge-Tridge’ saga that had defined decades of their lives, was finally over. The premise was simple: The day when Ridge, Brooke, and Taylor can sit down and have Thanksgiving dinner together, we might believe that they’re done with each other.

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The silence at the main end of the table was heavier than the cranberry sauce.

Ridge sat perfectly still, radiating an energy of polite discomfort. To his left was Brooke, radiant in a sapphire dress, her smile fixed but her eyes searching. To his right was Taylor, equally graceful, offering small, strained compliments on the stuffing. They were performing an intricate, uncomfortable dance of platonic civility, attempting to convince everyone, especially themselves, that their relationship had genuinely evolved into mature friendship.

Liam, seated nearby, muttered to Hope, “This is less like a holiday dinner and more like a high-stakes poker game. Who cracks first?”

The tension began to coil tightly when the conversation naturally shifted to the past.

“Remember that Thanksgiving in Aspen, Ridge?” Taylor asked, a soft, nostalgic lilt in her voice, instantly invoking a memory that predated Brooke’s current place in his life. “You had that terrible cold, and I convinced you to drink that awful mustard tea?”

Ridge offered a weak laugh. “Oh, God, yes. You always did have the most unorthodox home remedies, Doc.”

Brooke’s smile tightened. She quickly interjected, her voice warm and proprietorial, “Well, he always prefers my chicken noodle soup, Taylor. It’s a classic for a reason. He used to demand it every time he had a fever, remember, Honey?”

The shift in the endearment, “Honey,” felt like a grenade lobbed across the gravy boat.

Taylor paused, placing her fork down with a barely audible clink. “Of course, Brooke. But there’s a difference between a remedy and simple comfort. Some things are curative; others are just… familiar.”

The implication hung in the air: Taylor represented the cure and depth; Brooke, the easy, familiar comfort.

Ridge, feeling the invisible pressure rising, quickly tried to redirect. “Speaking of cures, this turkey is incredible, Steffy.”

But the underlying current of emotional rivalry could not be ignored. The whole family was watching, waiting for the facade of peace to shatter. It was like watching three tectonic plates press against each other, knowing the earthquake was imminent.

The final straw came when Ridge began carving the bird. He expertly portioned a slice of white meat for Taylor, then handed the carving tools to Thomas. He then reached for the leg—Brooke’s favorite cut.

“Brooke, your favorite,” he murmured, his eyes lingering on hers for a microsecond too long—a moment that spoke volumes about years of shared traditions, preferences, and intimacy.

Taylor saw it. Brooke saw it. And both women felt the familiar, painful stab of possessiveness.

“Actually, Ridge,” Taylor chimed in, leaning forward with practiced grace, “I’ve been trying to cut back on white meat. Could I switch with you? I’d love a piece of that dark meat.”

It was a small, innocuous request, yet it was a direct challenge to the moment Ridge had just shared with Brooke. She was asserting her presence, her desires, in their shared space.

Brooke, finally abandoning the forced calm, addressed Taylor directly, her tone dropping to a dangerous sweetness. “That’s fine, Taylor, but you know Ridge always prefers the white meat. Don’t you remember, all those years ago, he’d never touch the leg?”

Taylor’s gaze didn’t waver. “People change, Brooke. Their tastes evolve. Sometimes they realize the thing they thought they wanted, the familiar thing, wasn’t actually what was best for them.”

Ridge finally pushed his plate back, the sound echoing across the suddenly silent table. He looked from Taylor to Brooke, his eyes carrying the unmistakable confusion and exhaustion that had marked the last three decades of his life.

“Stop it,” Ridge said, his voice quiet but firm. “This is ridiculous. Steffy asked us here to celebrate gratitude and family. And all we are doing is proving that we are incapable of sitting through a single meal without… without competing.”

He finally understood the flaw in Steffy’s theory. They weren’t fighting over him; they were fighting through him. They hadn’t moved on from each other—they had just formalized their co-existence into a cold war. The energy that existed between them—the history, the passion, the rivalry—was too powerful to be neutralized by a turkey and a few side dishes.

Ridge looked at Taylor, then at Brooke. He saw two beautiful, intelligent, complex women who deserved better than to be perpetually tethered by his indecision.

“Steffy, I’m sorry,” he sighed, pushing his chair back completely. “I think we have our answer. We’re not done. Not yet.”

He walked out of the room, leaving the festive lights to illuminate the two heartbroken women sitting on opposite sides of the table. Steffy’s experiment had failed spectacularly. The Thanksgiving dinner hadn’t proven their emotional independence; it had proven the unbreakable, tragic bond that still held them captive.

The Turkey Test revealed the truth: The triangle had merely been paused, waiting for the perfect moment—a moment of shared vulnerability and tradition—to restart the clock on their unending war for Ridge’s heart.