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It wasn’t that simple at all. They were implying she worked because she was lonely, but that wasn’t the case. Her work wasn’t her backup plan—it was her choice.
She’d chosen every single thing about her life. She’d designed her life. Written a book about it, dammit. Her life was perfect for her. Custom-made. A haute couture life. Everything she’d ever wanted.
“I guess her life must be pretty empty.”
Empty? Had they looked around at all? Seen the view from her corner office? True, she didn’t often look at it herself, because she was too busy to turn around, but she’d been told it was magnificent. Hadn’t they seen the photographs of her with industry leaders?
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She led a full life.
“Yeah, poor thing...”
She wasn’t a poor thing. She was a powerhouse.
All they saw was the businesswoman. They knew nothing else about her. They didn’t know how hard she’d had to work to arrive at this place in her life. They didn’t know why she was this way. They didn’t know she had a past. A history. They didn’t know all the things that had happened to her.
They didn’t know her at all. They thought she had an empty life. They thought she was a lonely, sad figure. They were wrong.
They were—
Were they wrong?
She felt a sudden wash of cold air and saw a blinding light.
That question Rochelle had asked her, echoed in her head: And you’ve never had any regrets?
The faint wobble inside her became something bigger. It spread from the inside outward until her whole body was shaking.
She didn’t have regrets. She did not have regrets.
Regret was a wasted emotion—first cousin to guilt. Gayle had no room for either in her life.
But the shaking wouldn’t stop.
“We’ll get her to the ER.”
As well as the shaking, now there was a terrifying pressure in her chest. Had they forgotten to lift the bookcase from her mangled body? No. No, it wasn’t that. The pressure was coming from the inside, not the outside. Heart? No. It wasn’t physical. It was emotional.
“Her pulse rate is increasing.”
Of course it was increasing! Emotion did that to you. It messed you up. It was the reason she tried never to let it into her life. She had no idea who had allowed it in now—because it certainly hadn’t been her. It must have crept in through the hole in her head.
“She might be bleeding from somewhere. Let’s move. If there’s no one at home to care for her, they’ll probably admit her.”
She was going to be admitted to the hospital because all she had in her life was work and Puccini. Neither of those was going to bring her a glass of water or check she was alive in the night.
She lay there, trapped inside her bruised, broken body, forcing herself to do what she urged others to do. Acknowledge the truth of her life.
She ran a successful company. She had an apartment full of art and antiques on the Upper East Side and enough money that she never had to worry about it. But she had no one who would rush to her side when she was in trouble.
Cole was here because he was paid to be here, so that didn’t count.
She wasn’t loved. There was no one who cared about her. Not one person who would hear about the accident and think, Oh no! Poor Gayle! No one would be calling a florist and ordering flowers. No one would be delivering a casserole to her door or asking if there was anything she needed.
She was alone in this life she’d designed for herself.
Completely, totally and utterly alone.
