Taylor’s Stand: No More Hand-Me-Down Heartbreak

The late afternoon sunlight cut golden stripes across the Forrester living room, glinting off the gleaming ring on Taylor Hayes’ finger. She’d stood in this very room a thousand times before—sometimes as adored fiancée, sometimes as jilted runner-up. But today? Today she felt something else entirely. Call it resolve. Call it rebellion. Call it the final straw in a love triangle that spanned decades and four continents.

.

.

.

She stood by the mantel as Ridge entered, his jaw set, his blue eyes stormy with emotion. He had that “Man on a Mission” look—shoulders rigid, hands balled into fists in his pockets. Taylor could feel the speech coming before he even opened his mouth. And somehow, she already knew the lines.

“Taylor,” Ridge began, voice thick with rehearsed regret, “there’s something I have to say, and you need to hear it from me—not from anyone else.”

Taylor raised one eyebrow. “Let me guess, Ridge. You’ve decided you can’t marry me after all. There’s been some… epiphany. A moment of ‘clarity’ after you ‘rescued’ Brooke, and now you think you owe it to her—to yourself—to us all, to right your latest ‘wrong.’” She drew exaggerated air quotes with her fingers.

He paused. He always paused, as though shocked she could read the script he’d written a thousand times before. “It’s not easy for me either, Doc,” Ridge said, reaching for her hand. “After what happened in the Mediterranean… I can’t just ignore how I felt, how I feel.”

Taylor pulled her hand away, squaring her shoulders. “Tell me, Ridge—just once, can you break up with me without invoking water or geographic points on a map? I suppose if I lose you in a swamp, we’ll never have a shot again?”

His lips twitched, but she glared, undeterred. “No, I get it. You rescued Brooke. Or maybe Brooke rescued you. Or maybe you both just love saving each other so much, you can’t remember who’s the damsel and who’s the knight. And now you’re here—again—trying to explain to me why you need to run back to her like you haven’t spent six months promising you’re done with that.”

She crossed her arms, her voice rising and falling, equal parts wounded and outraged. “You think I give a care about your emotional rescue, Ridge? You made a commitment to me. You put this ring on my finger. You asked me for my future, for my trust, for my heart. And do you know something? For the first time in my life, I actually believed you meant it.”

“Taylor—”

“No. Don’t interrupt me. You need to hear this, and for once, you need to stay put and listen. My days of handing you over to Brooke—on a whim, on a wave, or with a bouquet—are over. I am not your consolation prize, Ridge. I’m not the one you marry because she’s not available, and I’m sure as hell not the one you propose to just to fill the silence while she figures out her feelings.”

The room seemed to pulse with the force of her words. “You’re not going to just toss me aside like this is last season’s collection, or some scarf you loan out when it rains. I’m not taking this ring off. You heard me. I am not taking it off. We are getting married. Not because you owe me—not because you need to fix a mistake or dissolve your guilt—but because I deserve a man who stands by his word, not one who’s always halfway out the door.”

She stepped closer, fiery tears glimmering in her eyes. “If we don’t get married, Ridge, do you want to know why? The only reason we won’t is because I no longer want to. Not because of some emotional save in the Mediterranean, or because of another rescue from a mountain, a marsh, or a Malibu mudslide.”

Taylor drew a calming breath. “So here’s what you’re going to do: You’re going to run—yes, run—back and tell Brooke exactly that. Tell her I’m not handing you over like I’m donating a gently used wedding dress to charity—for the tenth time.”

He tried to interrupt again, but she held up a hand, voice now controlled and even. “I am done being the fallback, Ridge. I am done cleaning up after your emotional messes. Do you realize what it does to a woman’s soul to spend years being the ‘good choice’ only when the other ‘choice’ says no? I’m not the alternative plan. I’m the main event—if you’re lucky enough to keep me.”

Ridge’s jaw worked soundlessly. Taylor almost pitied him. Almost.

“Oh, and before you go,” she added, voice laced with sarcasm, “maybe think about what happens if I decide I don’t want this anymore. Maybe next time you reach for me to rescue you, I’ll be halfway across the world, living my life, thriving—ring and all. And you can explain to Brooke why you let the only woman who ever truly believed in you walk out that door.”

Ridge looked at her, eyes glistening, searching for the softness he always counted on when he ran back to Taylor. But there was only steel, only dignity, only years of heartbreak finally compressed into resolve.

For a moment, silence fell. Then Taylor gave a graceful, almost regal nod. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a wedding to continue planning. Whether or not you get to fill that groom’s spot is, from now on, up to me—and only me.”

Ridge exhaled, shoulders slumping in defeat… but for the first time in years, Taylor didn’t feel sorry for him. She felt almost free.

As she watched him leave, she turned the ring on her finger—a symbol of every hope, every broken promise, and maybe, finally, her own worth. Across the room, wedding invitations shimmered on the table. Taylor smiled at them, then at herself in the mirror. Her voice was soft, but certain. “Here’s to new stories. Maybe with you, Ridge. Maybe not. But definitely, finally, about me.”

The Forrester drama would spin on. Ridge would run, Brooke would beckon, and the world would watch as loyalties, loves, and legends rose and fell with the tides. But for once, Taylor’s tide was rising on her own terms.

And as for that ring? She decided it looked better than ever—not because Ridge put it there, but because she had finally, unflinchingly, decided to keep it—for herself.