Page 50 of Healing Hearts
Trevor’s jaw tightens, his eyes blazing with anger. “What a bastard,” he mutters, his arms tightening around me protectively. “You didn’t deserve that. Not even close.”
I bury my face in his chest, the tears coming harder now. “What am I going to do, Trevor? I just quit my job, my secret identity is now no longer a secret, and my friends have no idea who I’ve been the last few years. My whole life feels like it’s falling apart.”
He lifts my chin, his gaze steady and unwavering. “You’re going to do what you’ve always done—rise above it. You’re strong, Brooke. Stronger than you realize. And I’m so damn proud of you for standing up for yourself.”
His words are a balm to my frayed nerves, wrapping around me like a warm blanket. For the first time all day, I feel a flicker of hope.
“I love you,” I whisper, my voice barely audible.
Trevor’s expression softens, his lips brushing against my forehead. “I love you, too,” he murmurs. “And we’re going to get through this together. I promise.”
In his arms, the world feels a little less daunting, and for the first time, I start to believe that maybe I’ll be okay.
Chapter 20
Brooke
Trevor insists on taking me out to celebrate tonight, his determination evident in the way he grins and grabs my hand as he plans the evening. “You’ve earned this,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. After the emotional rollercoaster of the past two days—quitting my job, revealing my secret identity, and coming to terms with how much my life is about to change—a quiet dinner feels like the perfect antidote to the whirlwind. The Silver Willow, with its soft lighting, cozy booths, and world-class food, has always been a sanctuary for me, and Trevor, ever thoughtful, knows that.
He senses my need for solace before I even have to say it. The prospect of unwinding with him, away from the chaos of the past few days, feels like a gift in itself. Trevor has this uncanny ability to ground me, to make me feel like everything might just turn out okay—and tonight, I’m holding on to that hope.
Earlier, my agent Melissa had squealed so loudly when I told her about my public “outing” as Sophie Quinn that I had to hold the phone away from my ear, wincing at the enthusiastic shriek. “This ishuge,Brooke!” she’d exclaimed, herexcitement bubbling over. “Do you have any idea what this will do for your career? This is the kind of boost most authors only dream about! Publishers are going to bebeggingfor you now. And headlining the Autumn Leaves Literary Festival? It’s not just a milestone—it’s acareer-definingmoment!”
Her words tumbled out in rapid-fire succession, and I could practically hear her pacing on the other end of the line, her heels clicking on the polished floors of her office. “The buzz this is going to generate? I mean, Brooke, we’re talking expanded book deals, licensing opportunities, maybe even a movie or TV adaptation. Do you realize what this means for Sophie Quinn’s brand? And for you? You’re not just an author anymore—you’re an icon!”
My heart raced as I listened, the enormity of it all sinking in. It wasn’t just about the books anymore. Melissa was talking about a whirlwind of possibilities: media interviews, panels, collaborations, even partnerships with big names in the industry.
“And Brooke,” Melissa continued, her voice softening, “this is your moment to shine. You’ve worked so hard for this. The world will finally know the brilliant mind behind Sophie Quinn’s stories, and they’re going to love you just as much as they love your books.”
Her encouragement was like a warm blanket on a cold night, soothing my frayed nerves. We spent the next two hours diving into the logistics, her excitement sparking my own as we mapped out a production schedule for my next novel. We brainstormed plot points, refining the twists and turns that would keep my readers hooked. Melissa’s mind was a whirlwind of ideas, and before I knew it, we were planning book signings, panel appearances, and even a possible national tour.
By the time we hung up, I was a mix of exhilarated and overwhelmed. My life was changing faster than I could have imagined, but for the first time, I felt ready to embraceit. Sophie Quinn is no longer just a name on a book cover—she is me, and I am finally ready to step into her shoes.
But now, with Trevor by my side, I’m ready to exhale and relax.
As we approach the restaurant, the wailing of sirens shatters the calm. Red and blue lights flash in the distance, and a convoy of fire trucks, ambulances, and police cruisers speeds past us, their urgency palpable.
“I wonder what happened,” I murmur, my chest tightening with unease.
Trevor slows the car, his hands tightening on the steering wheel. His gaze is sharp, his jaw set. “Something big,” he says. “Let’s see what’s going on.”
I place a hand on his arm, sensing his concern. “Trevor, if they need you, you need to go. I’ll be fine, I promise. Don’t worry about me.”
His eyes lock onto mine, a flicker of hesitation crossing his face. “Let’s check it out first. If it’s serious, I’ll see if they need me.”
When we nearThe Silver Willow,my stomach plummets. The familiar, cozy restaurant, usually glowing warmly in the night, is now a nightmarish scene of chaos and destruction. Flames consume the building, their hungry orange and red tongues licking at the night sky. Thick black smoke billows upward in ominous spirals, blotting out the stars. The acrid stench of burning wood, fabric, and who knows what else fills the air, searing my lungs with every breath.
The sound hits me next—a cacophony of shouts, the wailing of sirens, and the whoosh of pressurized water from the firefighters’ hoses as they battle the inferno. Paramedics move swiftly among the gathered crowd, guiding coughing patrons and soot-covered staff to safety, their faces streaked with ash and panic.
Trevor tightens his grip on the steering wheel, his jawclenching as he pulls the car over to the side of the road, as close as the barricades will allow. He’s already unbuckling his seatbelt before the car has fully stopped.
"Stay here," he says, his tone firm, his doctor instincts kicking in like clockwork. “I’ll be at the medical tent if you need me.”
I barely manage a nod before he’s out of the car, running toward the scene with purposeful strides. The sight of him joining the paramedics and calmly assessing the injured is both reassuring and nerve-wracking.
I climb out of the car, unable to stay put. My focus shifts to the people around me—some are crying, others are calling out names, frantically searching for loved ones. My heart pounds as I scan the crowd, hoping for a familiar face.
Then I see Charlie, the head chef ofThe Silver Willow,is near the building’s entrance, her white chef’s coat now streaked with soot and grime. She’s helping an elderly woman hobble toward the paramedics, her expression a mix of determination and terror.
