14. Chapter 14
Chapter 14
R osie sat in the waiting area of Taylor West Capital, an investment firm and private equity group with its fingers in real estate, technology, fine art acquisitions, and luxury hospitality ventures. The firm was Greg Taylor’s empire, an empire worth billions.
The office was perched on the top floor of one of the tallest, sleekest buildings in downtown San Diego—Pacific Point Tower, a glass monolith with sweeping ocean views, just a short drive from the Marina District and the Gaslamp Quarter.
Rosie shifted in her seat, crossing her legs, rolling the condensation of her water bottle between her palms.
She was hot.
Not in the sexy way, but in the San Diego-in-July, sun-scorching-the-pavement, air-heavy-with-heat kind of way.
The office’s AC was crisp, a relief after the blistering walk from the parking garage, her dark jeans sticking to her skin, the silk of her blouse too thin to help much.
Her black stilettos tapped lightly against the polished floor as she took in her surroundings.
Everything here screamed money.
The waiting area was all clean lines and quiet wealth— a white leather couch, sleek black marble tables, fresh white orchids arranged in a way that made it clear someone was paid a lot to make them look effortlessly perfect.
The walls were mostly glass, overlooking the city below, but where there was drywall, there was art.
Real art. Serious art.
One of the pieces was a Mark Rothko, the deep, moody hues practically swallowing up the wall behind the assistant’s desk.
Another—a modern sculpture in a minimalist glass case, something that probably cost more than every single paycheck she’d ever made combined.
Rosie exhaled, pressing the cold bottle of water against her throat for a second.
She didn’t belong here.
She wasn’t a billionaire.
She wasn’t an investor, a CEO, a legacy kid who grew up surrounded by wealth.
She was just a girl who painted, a girl who survived, a girl who scraped her way up from nothing.
And yet, Greg Taylor wanted to meet with her personally.
It should’ve felt like a win. A career milestone. A breakthrough.
Instead, she just felt like trash.
Because no matter how much she tried to focus, her mind kept pulling her back to Isaac.
To this morning.
To the way he had kissed her like she was already his.
To the way she had let him take her again, after she swore she wouldn’t.
To the way he had left—carefree, cocky, thinking everything was fine.
It wasn’t fine.
She wasn’t fine.
She had told him no casual sex.
What the fuck was the matter with him?
What the fuck was the matter with her?
She kept going back.
Letting him in.
Letting him break her heart over and over again, even when she knew better.
Why?
Why?
Why?
Enough is enough.
Her heart couldn’t take this man.
She wasn’t some pitiful girl waiting around for Isaac Rayleigh to decide what she was worth.
She was Rosalie Quentin.
She had made it this far on her own.
And she was going to keep making it, with or without him.
The assistant’s voice pulled her back.
“Miss Quentin?”
Rosie blinked, setting down her water bottle.
“Greg will see you now.”
Rosie stepped into Greg Taylor’s office, and the first thing she noticed was the view.
Floor-to-ceiling glass framed the entire city, downtown San Diego stretching wide below, the ocean shimmering in the distance. The space itself was just as impressive—modern but warm, earthy tones, dark wood, leather furniture that probably cost more than she’d made in her entire life.
And then there was Greg.
He stood as she entered, tall, broad-shouldered, fit in the way men his age rarely were. His grey hair was neatly trimmed, his face sharp, weathered in a way that spoke to years of experience.
His handshake was firm.
His grey eyes—cutting, intelligent, and unreadable— scanned her face like he was already trying to figure her out.
“Rosalie Quentin,” he said, giving her a nod of approval. “Glad you came.”
“Mr. Taylor,” she said, keeping her posture straight, professional.
He shook his head, already waving her into the seat across from his desk.
“Greg,” he corrected. “No formalities needed.”
Rosie nodded, crossing her legs as she settled in.
There was a beat of silence, a measured pause, as if he were considering how to start.
And then, in that direct, no-bullshit way she suspected he approached everything, he got right into it.
“I sponsor a local San Diego boys’ and girls’ mentorship program,” he said, leaning back slightly, resting one arm on the desk. “It’s for vulnerable families—kids coming out of intervention programs, struggling home situations, that kind of thing. It’s something I’ve been involved with for years.”
Rosie sat up a little straighter.
“I saw your work at the gallery,” he continued, his sharp gaze never leaving hers. “And I’ll be honest—it stopped me in my tracks.”
She blinked, caught off guard.
“That doesn’t happen often,” he admitted, a small, knowing smile pulling at his lips.
Heat flushed up her neck. “Thank you.”
He nodded once, firmly. “I was even more intrigued when I learned your story.”
Rosie stilled, her fingers tensing slightly in her lap.
Greg noticed.
He tilted his head. “That bother you?”
She hesitated. “I’m not used to people knowing my story. Not beyond what’s in my art.”
His sharp grey eyes softened just a little.
“Then I’ll keep it simple,” he said. “I think what you do—what you create—matters. And I want you involved in what I do.”
Rosie swallowed.
Greg leaned forward, forearms bracing against the desk, completely focused on her.
“I’m thinking through what that means,” he admitted. “Maybe I commission you. Maybe I pay you to come in and teach art classes. Maybe it’s both.”
Rosie’s mind whirled.
This was… real.
This wasn’t just someone buying a painting for their collection.
This was **someone seeing her talent—**really seeing it—and wanting to support it.
Wanting to help her build something bigger.
Greg studied her, giving her a moment to absorb it.
Then, calmly—“I want to know your thoughts. What do you want?”
Rosie let out a slow exhale, glancing down at her hands, suddenly aware of how badly she wanted this.
Independence. Success. The ability to finally stand on her own.
Greg was offering her a door.
And for the first time in a long time, she was starting to believe she might be able to walk through it.
She glanced back up, meeting his gaze.
He was looking at her carefully.
Not just as a businessman assessing an investment.
As a man who found her attractive.
It was subtle, barely there, but she caught it—the way his gaze flickered over her face, her frame, the way his fingers tapped idly against the desk like he was keeping himself in check.
And she wasn’t blind.
Greg Taylor was an undeniably attractive older gentleman.
Powerful. Intelligent. Controlled in a way that suggested he didn’t let things slip easily.
And yet, he was here. Offering her something real.
Something she didn’t have to beg for.
Something that wasn’t tied to pity or charity or obligation.
For the first time all day, she felt steady.
And when Greg’s assistant reappeared, stepping in with a polite nod, she barely flinched.
“Mr. Taylor, your next meeting is in ten.”
Greg glanced at the time, exhaled sharply, then turned back to Rosie.
“Alright,” he said, giving her one last, considering look. “Tell me. What do you want?”
Rosie sat there, Greg Taylor’s sharp grey eyes locked onto hers, waiting.
Waiting for her answer.
Waiting for her truth.
She took a slow breath, her fingers curling around the edge of the armrest, grounding herself. No bullshit. No filtering. Just the truth.
“I’m broke,” she admitted.
Greg didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just sat there, listening.
“I have nothing,” she continued, her voice even. “I am… nothing to no one.”
There. She said it. The thing she never admitted out loud.
Greg’s expression didn’t shift, but something behind his eyes did.
Understanding. A flicker of recognition.
“But I have a vision,” she added, sitting up a little straighter. “I want to help people.”
He tilted his head, intrigued. “What kind of people?”
Rosie swallowed, already knowing the answer.
“Young people,” she said. “Kids in care. Kids aging out of the system. The ones no one thinks about when they turn eighteen. I want to give them hope. Hope that there’s a better future waiting for them.”
Greg was quiet for a moment. Then, he nodded.
“That’s good,” he said. “That’s something worth doing.”
She exhaled softly. “And I’d like to be independent. I want to be financially stable. I want to be successful, but not just for the sake of success. To me, success means… all of those things. It means security. It means control over my own life.”
Greg studied her, as if processing every word.
Then, with an unreadable smirk, he asked, “And a family of your own?”
Rosie blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
He lifted a shoulder. “I’m overstepping,” he admitted, not at all apologetic. “But I’m curious. Is that part of the vision, too?”
She hesitated.
Her instinct was to brush it off. To be flippant.
But something about Greg—about the way he looked at her like he expected honesty, nothing less—made her answer.
“Yes,” she said, her voice softer.
Greg’s gaze flickered. Satisfied.
“There’s something for us both to think about, then,” he said, pushing back from his desk. “Why don’t you meet me back here on Friday? Dinner, and we’ll hammer out the details.”
Rosie blinked. “Dinner?”
Greg’s smirk was subtle. “If you can.”
Something about the way he said her name sent a flicker of heat through her.
She nodded, standing, smoothing out her blouse.
“Alright,” she said. “Friday.”
Greg stood with her, reaching out to shake her hand again.
His grip was firm, steady, assured.
And Rosie had never felt more seen in her life.
“Thank you,” she said, voice earnest, from the bottom of her heart.
Greg didn’t brush it off. Didn’t downplay it.
He just nodded.
“You don’t need to thank me yet,” he said, “but I’ll take it anyway.”
Rosie smiled, then turned and walked out, her heart lighter than it had been in a long time.
When she stepped out of the building, the hot July air hit her instantly, but she didn’t care.
Her head was high, her steps light, like she was walking on air.
For the first time in forever, she felt like she had a path forward.
A plan.
Something bigger than herself.
She walked to the nearest public transit stop, waiting for the next bus down to Coronado.
The sun was still beating down on the pavement, heatwaves rippling off the road, but Rosie barely noticed.
She stood at the bus stop, picking at the label on her water bottle, lost in her own thoughts, when her phone buzzed in her hand.
Amy.
Rosie exhaled, swiping to answer.
“Hey,” she said, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.
“Tell me everything.” Amy’s voice was warm, demanding, the voice of a woman who got things done.
Rosie let out a breathy laugh. “About what?”
“Your meeting, genius,” Amy said. “Greg Taylor. Billionaire. Art collector. Very interested in our girl.”
Rosie bit her lip, a slow warmth spreading through her chest.
“It went well,” she admitted. “He wants to figure out a way to get me involved in his charity. Maybe commission me. Maybe bring me in to teach. He said we’ll talk details over dinner Friday.”
Amy whistled low.
“Dinner,” she mused. “That’s a good sign.”
“It’s a business dinner,” Rosie clarified quickly, shaking her head.
Amy snorted. “Rosalie, I could talk about your career all damn day. But also—this is me buttering you up because I want to convince you to come out for a drink tonight. One drink. No excuses.”
Rosie groaned, tipping her head back toward the sky.
“Amy—”
“It’s on the gallery,” Amy cut in. “Let us take you out.”
Rosie sighed, rubbing her temple. “Does everyone know I’m poor?”
Amy barked a laugh. “Rosie. Baby. We know you’re an artist. Same thing.”
Rosie shook her head, opening her mouth to answer when something terrible happened.
Out of the corner of her eye, past the street, she saw him.
Tall. Jacked. Black baseball hat pulled low.
Leaning over the railing of a patio, grinning.
Isaac.
Her stomach dropped.
Her fingers went cold.
And then—the blonde.
Tall. Leggy. Stunning.
Looking French as fuck.
Rosie’s heart stopped.
The woman stood, smooth, graceful, smiling.
And then—hugged him.
The French two-kiss thing.
One cheek. The other. Close. Familiar.
Rosie turned and speed-walked in the opposite fucking direction.
Her pulse was slamming.
Her breath was shaky, uneven.
Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god.
Amy’s voice snapped in her ear.
“Dude. What?”
Rosie choked back a sob.
She wasn’t going to cry.
She wasn’t.
But fuck—she was.
Tears pricked hot behind her eyes.
“Rosie?” Amy’s voice changed—sharper now, urgent. “Talk to me. What just happened?”
Rosie shook her head violently, sucking in air. “I—I can’t—I just—”
“Okay, okay,” Amy said quickly. “Breathe. Where are you?”
Rosie stumbled onto the next street corner, gripping a light pole for balance.
“I just saw him,” she whispered. “With her.”
Amy didn’t even ask who.
“Okay,” she said, voice calm, controlled. “Get in a fucking cab. Come to the gallery. I’ll pay. We’ll figure it out.”
Rosie swallowed hard, staring at the street, at the cars gliding past like the world wasn’t currently caving in on her.
“Rosie.”
Amy’s voice was unshakable.
“Get in the cab.”
And this time—Rosie listened.