Wildest Dreams - A Taylor Swift Adoption Fanfiction

Chapter 1: Are You Okay?

IT'S BEEN A LONG TIME COMING :) Hellooooo, I'm back!  I've been busy writing my own book, but this specific story has been stuck in my mind for the past few months and I'm finally fleshing out the characters enough to write it. This is rated mature - there will be childhood trauma, swearing galore, PTSD, very brief domestic violence, and Tree Paine being a badass cause I really wanted to write a story of how I think her personality is and she deserves more credit haha  

I have a vague idea of the storyline for the next 10ish chapters, so feel free to leave suggestions. Oh also, I pre-wrote a lot of these, so you'll see more frequent updates at first, and then I'll eventually slow down. But I'm currently hyperfixating on this and can probably write a chapter a day easily (plus it's NaNoWriMo!) 

You know I can't resist a heartwarming Taylor Swift adoption story though (in my defense I have mommy issues lol)

Enjoy :) 

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The wet rainy concrete scrapes my palms as I hit the ground, my knee screaming in protest. Fuck. Nice job, Mandy. This is what I get for running without looking where I'm going. But when you're escaping, you don't exactly have time to watch for pedestrians.

"Are you okay?" the woman I just slammed full force in asks, her voice laced with concern as she pushes herself up. Her blue eyes met mine, and I felt a strange jolt in my chest.

I push it down, my defenses slamming into place. "I'm fine," I mutter, trying to stand. Pain lances through my knee, and I bit back a yelp. Shit. Must've banged it up pretty good.

The woman was on her feet now, her hand outstretched. "Here."

I eye her hand warily. In my experience, help always came with a price. "I don't need your help," I snap, ignoring the way my knee throbs.

She withdraws her hand, but the concern in her eyes didn't waver. "You're bleeding," she says softly. The woman crouches down, keeping her distance like I'm some spooked animal. Which, fair enough. Her blonde hair, covered with a baseball cap, catches the streetlight, and behind her, I notice two large men in black suits shifting uncomfortably. Security guards? What kind of person needs security guards at – I glance at my stolen watch – 11:43 PM?

I glanced down, noticing for the first time the blood seeping through the torn knee of my jeans as the rain tries to wash it all off. Double shit.

"Really? Hadn't noticed," I mutter, trying to push myself up. My knee buckles, and I bite back a curse. Show no weakness. That's rule number one of survival.

"Let me help you," she offers, extending her hand slowly. "I'm Taylor."

I stare at her hand like it might turn into a snake. "Good for you." But I can't stand on my own, and I can hear sirens in the distance.  They probably called the cops by now. Shit.

Taylor doesn't withdraw her hand. She just waits, patient as a statue, while I wage an internal war between survival instincts and necessity.

"Just watch where you're walking next time," I hiss.

She raises an eyebrow. "Pretty sure you were the one running full speed around that corner, but okay."

Her tone catches me off guard – not angry or condescending, just... amused? I study her face, looking for the usual signs: tightened jaw, narrowed eyes, that particular smile adults get when they're about to show their true colors. Instead, I find myself staring at probably the kindest eyes I've ever seen.

"Miss Swift," the suit guy says, "we should get you to the car."

"In a minute, John." She hasn't looked away from me. "What's your name?"

"None of your business." I wince. The knee of my jeans is torn and darkening with blood.

"Fair enough." She sits back on her heels, seemingly content to wait me out. "Want to tell me why you're running through alleys at midnight?"

"Want to tell me why you care?"

"Because you're hurt, you're clearly scared, and..." She pauses, her eyes taking in my raggedy backpack, my worn clothes, the bruise I haven't quite managed to hide with my hair. "And I think you might need help."

I laugh, harsh and sharp. "Lady, you have no idea what I need."

"Probably not," she agrees easily. "But I've got a first aid kit in my car, and you look like you could use a band-aid. Or twenty."

I eye the black SUV. "How do I know you're not some psycho?" It comes out sharper than I mean it to, my voice catching on the last word. "Like, this is literally how every crime documentary starts."

The woman actually laughs at that, which should piss me off but somehow doesn't. She pulls an iPhone from her coat pocket, unlocks it, and holds it out, not caring about the rain making it wet. Must be some waterproof technology shit. "Here. Call someone to come get you."

I stare at the phone, then at her. Most adults would be calling the cops by now, not handing over their thousand-dollar phone to some street rat. My fingers twitch, but I don't reach for it. "I don't..." The words stick in my throat like glass. "There's no one to call."

Something flickers across her face – not pity, which I hate, but something deeper. Sadder. She doesn't lower the phone. "That settles it then. I'm not leaving you bleeding on the sidewalk."

"And I'm not getting in a car with some rich chick. That's Stranger Danger 101." I protest, ready to test her. Sometimes the best way to get to know someone is by quickly testing how they would react when they get angry.

She sighs but there's soft understanding in her eyes. She hands me the phone again. "Google me. Taylor Swift"

I snort, "Google you? Is that supposed to help with anything."

She rolls her eyes, "Just do it will you?"

I want to throw her phone back in her face. I want to break her nose and run. I want to do so many things to get out of there, but I find myself pulling up Google on this strange woman's phone - her phone notifications are constantly buzzing - and typing in Taylor Swift.

"Holy fuckin' shit."

She has her own Wikipedia that's longer than some of the books I've read at the orphanage. There's billions of articles. And, speaking of, she's a billionaire. A singer.

"You're like... actually famous." I look up at her, then back at the phone. "Like, really fucking famous."

"A little bit, yeah." She says it like she's admitting to having a parking ticket, not being worth more money than I can even imagine.

"And you're just... standing in an alley with some random kid?" My voice cracks embarrassingly. "Don't you have, I don't know, important famous person shit to do?"

Taylor just shrugs, that same gentle look in her eyes. "Nothing more important than making sure you're okay."

"That's..." Stupid. Reckless. The kindest thing anyone's done for me in years. "...really weird."

"I get that a lot." She holds out her hand, not touching me, just offering. "Now will you please let me help with that knee? It's actually making me hurt just looking at it."

I glance down. Blood has soaked through my jeans, turning the blue fabric almost black. It really does look like shit. And I'm so tired. So fucking tired.

"Fine," I mutter, hating how my voice wavers. "But the doors stay open."

"Deal." She nods to the John guy, who moves to open the SUV's back door. "And hey – you're safe. I promise."

I roll my eyes as I let her help me get up. "Promises mean nothing."

Taylor gently smiles, making sure her grip on me offers just enough support to not make me bolt out of fear. She's smart. "Mine do."

I try to argue and offer a sassy remark in return, but I just want this to be over with. I don't know what my plan is. I don't even know what I'll do after this. But I let this strange filthy rich lady take me to her car like I was born yesterday.

It's still a better choice than going back.