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THE WHITE KNIGHT’S SWAN SONG: Why Taylor Hayes Must Update Her Will

Part I: The Incubation of Evil

The flickering candlelight barely pierced the gloom of Sheila Carter’s sparsely furnished, temporary hideout—a seedy motel room on the forgotten edge of Los Angeles. But the darkness was nothing compared to the storm raging inside her. The rage, cold and absolute, focused entirely on one person: Dr. Taylor Hayes.

Taylor. The perennial “White Knight.” The beautiful, compassionate psychiatrist who always stood between Sheila and the only thing that mattered—her son, John “Finn” Finnegan, and her grandson, Hayes. And worse, Taylor was the woman who had swooped in and reclaimed the love of Ridge Forrester, the man Sheila had briefly, desperately believed she could control.

Sheila ran a perfectly manicured hand over a heavy, antique brass candlestick. The metal was cold, smooth, and lethal. “They call you the healer, don’t they, Taylor?” she whispered to the empty room, her voice a low, venomous hiss. “But you’re nothing but an obstruction. A flawless, perfect road bump on my path to happiness.”

Her plan had crystallized hours ago, sharp and simple. She had tried fear. She had tried manipulation. She had even faked her own death (or tried to, with a missing toe!). It was time for the final solution. Taylor Hayes had to disappear. Permanently.

Sheila reached for her burner phone, a cruel smile stretching across her face. She would use Taylor’s one weakness: her compassion.

Part II: The Unknowing Victim

At the cliff house, the Pacific Ocean roared a deep, steady warning, but Taylor Hayes didn’t hear it over the sound of her own contented sigh. She was on the phone with Steffy, discussing Finn’s remarkable progress.

“He’s truly thriving, Mom. It’s like having him reborn,” Steffy’s voice was warm.

“He is, my darling. He has your strength, and he has a fighter’s spirit,” Taylor replied, glancing at a photograph of her son, Thomas, and her daughter, Steffy, from their childhood. “It’s moments like these that make everything else—the drama, the back-and-forth—just fade away.”

Taylor was referring, naturally, to Ridge. Her relationship with Ridge was stable, yet fragile, always threatened by the looming shadow of Brooke Logan. But Taylor was focusing on the good. She was dedicating her life to healing.

A text notification buzzed on her work phone, interrupting the peaceful moment. It was from an unfamiliar number.

MESSAGE: Dr. Hayes. Urgent. I need help. My fiancé… I think he’s trying to hurt himself. We are at a remote spot near Topanga Canyon. I can’t call the police. He’s a public figure. Please, you’re the only one I trust. The address is attached.

Taylor’s stomach clenched. A potential suicide attempt? A public figure needing discretion? This was precisely what she trained for. She texted Steffy quickly: Urgent client call—remote location. Be safe, love you.

She pulled on a thick sweater. The address was indeed remote—a small, private retreat cabin deep in the canyons, far from cell service. It felt wrong, but the urgency in the text, the raw fear, spurred her into action. She was a doctor; she ran toward the crisis.

She threw her professional bag into her car. As she drove away from the familiar, safe glow of the cliff house, she failed to notice the cheap, dark sedan pulling out from the shadows a block away, its headlights off, following her into the winding, unlit roads of the canyon.

Part III: The Trap is Set

The cabin was rustic, secluded, and ominously dark. Taylor parked and cautiously approached the front door. She knocked softly.

“Hello? I’m Dr. Hayes. I received your text. Is everything alright?”

The door creaked open, not by a frantic fiancé, but by Sheila Carter. Sheila was dressed entirely in black, her usually manicured nails now chipped and digging into the brass candlestick. Her eyes were wide, glittering with a terrifying mix of madness and triumph.

Taylor froze, the blood draining from her face. “Sheila! What is this? Where is the patient?”

Sheila leaned against the doorframe, blocking the exit. “Oh, the patient is here, Taylor. The patient has been here all along. And the diagnosis? Terminal.”

Taylor, the psychiatrist, forced herself into professional mode, masking her terror. “Sheila, you need help. You are distressed. Put that down, and let’s talk.”

“Talk?” Sheila scoffed, a dry, rasping sound. “We’ve been talking for twenty years, haven’t we? You talk about healing, about forgiveness, about being ‘high on the moral ground.’ I talk about family. And you, Doctor, always win. You get the man. You get the daughter. You even stole my perfect life by surviving that shooting years ago! It’s time for the final session, Taylor.”

Taylor finally understood the deadly seriousness of the situation. This wasn’t an emotional outburst. This was premeditated murder. She glanced frantically toward her car. Too far.

“This is about Finn, isn’t it?” Taylor tried to reason, using her knowledge of Sheila’s obsession. “You want to clear the path. But killing me won’t give you Finn, Sheila. It will only send you back to prison for good! You’ll never see him again!”

This was the wrong move. Mentioning prison caused Sheila’s eyes to narrow to slits. “I won’t go back! I won’t! Finn will understand eventually. He’ll see I did this for him. To remove the toxic influence that keeps whispering doubts in his ear—the influence of Steffy’s mother!”

Sheila lunged, the heavy brass candlestick swinging in a deadly arc.

Part IV: The Climax and Near Miss

Taylor reacted instantly. Years of fighting for her life—against Bill, against her own trauma—had honed her survival instincts. She ducked under the blow, the brass missing her head by inches and striking the wooden doorframe with a sickening thud.

The force of the impact jarred Sheila, giving Taylor a precious second. She stumbled back and into the dimly lit cabin’s main room, grabbing the nearest object—a small, decorative ceramic vase—and hurling it. It shattered harmlessly against the wall near Sheila’s shoulder, but the noise was deafening in the silence.

“You’re strong, Taylor, I’ll give you that,” Sheila snarled, now stalking her prey slowly, weapon raised. “But you’re not as desperate as I am. I have nothing to lose! You have everything—your children, your prestige, Ridge…”

“Ridge!” Taylor gasped, the name giving her a jolt of energy. “Ridge loves me! He will find you, Sheila! He will know what happened!”

“He’ll find your car, Taylor. He won’t find the body,” Sheila countered chillingly. She pointed to a heavy, rolled-up plastic tarp tucked in the corner. “The perfect staging. A disappearance. A tragic end to a psychiatrist who took on too much. They’ll blame the pressures of the job.”

The two women circled each other near a dark fireplace. Sheila was physically imposing; Taylor, quick and agile. Taylor’s mind raced, searching for an escape. There was only one small, high window near the back of the room.

Just as Sheila prepared for a final, fatal swing, Taylor made her move. She grabbed the fireplace poker, a long, slender piece of iron, and raised it defensively.

Ring… Ring…

The sudden, insistent blare of Taylor’s cell phone—which she had dropped near the door during the initial struggle—pierced the tension.

Sheila hesitated, momentarily startled by the sound. It was the only thing connecting Taylor to the outside world.

Taylor seized the opportunity. She didn’t strike. Instead, she bolted toward the phone, diving to snatch it up. Sheila roared in frustration, bringing the brass candlestick down onto the coffee table where the phone had just been, splitting the wood with a massive crack.

Taylor scrambled backward, clutching the phone. The caller ID glowed: Ridge.

“Ridge! Call 911! I’m at the cabin! Sheila—”

Before she could finish the address, Sheila, moving with frightening speed, kicked the phone out of Taylor’s hand. It skittered across the floor and slammed against the base of the fireplace, silencing the call. But the connection had been made. Ridge knew something was wrong.

Sheila stood over Taylor, her chest heaving, the candlestick raised high above her head for the kill. “No more talking! No more second chances! Say goodbye, Dr. Hayes.”

Just as the weapon began its downward plunge, a sound cut through the canyon silence—the unmistakable screech of tires and the slam of a powerful car door.

Part V: The Cliffhanger

“FREEZE, SHEILA!”

The command, sharp and powerful, came from the doorway.

Ridge Forrester stood silhouetted against the dark night, his eyes blazing, a heavy construction torch he must have grabbed from his truck clutched in his hand. He hadn’t gotten the full address, but he had tracked the burner phone’s approximate location through the phone company contact he always kept on speed dial, knowing Taylor sometimes went off-grid.

The sight of Ridge shattered Sheila’s murderous focus. The weapon wavered in her hand.

“Ridge? You’re too late! She was getting in the way of our family! I was doing this for you! For Finn!” Sheila cried, desperately trying to spin the situation.

Ridge ignored her, his eyes locked on Taylor, who was trembling, clutching the iron poker, dirtied and disheveled but miraculously alive.

“Taylor, get behind me. Now!”

As Taylor stumbled back, Ridge took a step toward Sheila. In that moment of distraction, the killer made her final, desperate move. She didn’t attack Ridge. Instead, she spun around, throwing the heavy brass candlestick at a window, smashing the glass into shards. Before Ridge could reach her, she was out, disappearing into the dark, tangled woods of the canyon like the predator she was.

Taylor collapsed against Ridge’s chest, shaking uncontrollably, the image of the descending brass forever burned into her memory.

Ridge held her tight, his voice thick with fury and fear. “She’s gone! She got away! Are you hurt, Logan?” He quickly corrected himself, “Are you hurt, Taylor?”

Taylor pulled back, her eyes wide with a cold, terrifying clarity. “She meant to kill me, Ridge. She had it planned. She had a tarp. This was not a moment of passion. This was calculated. We have to call the police. We have to tell Steffy. She’s coming for us all.”

Ridge held her face in his hands, nodding grimly. Sheila Carter was a fugitive once more, and this time, her deadly intent was undeniable. Taylor Hayes was alive, but she knew the truth: the white knight had just become the target, and Sheila would not stop until Taylor was nothing but a painful memory. The game had changed, and it was playing for keeps. Taylor Hayes knew she needed more than love to protect her now. She needed to prepare for war.