Raw ache seeps through his gaze as he looks over at her, and she speaks up in a plea for both of us. “Look at her, Nate.”
Dad’s watery eyes drift to mine. “That baby needs you right now.” His expression falters as a fast tear forms and falls, trailing slowly down his cheek. My own tears begin to blind me. “She needs you more than ever, and you’re hurting her. So, I’m asking you, again, what the hell are you doing, Nate?”
Dad’s expression crumbles as I bury my head in my hands and let out a guttural cry. In the next second, I’m whisked into his arms as he encases me fully. His love surrounds me as I shake with grief, completely overwhelmed while he holds me to his chest.
“Daddy,” I croak, just as he does.
“I’m sorry, too. I’m so sorry, Natalie,” he rasps out. “You’re my life, and there’s nothing, nothing, on this earth you could do that could erase an ounce of my love for you.”
Doing my best to catch my sobs, I fail when I feel my mother’s palm run down my back as Dad continues to whisper to me. “I’m sorry I’ve been such a bastard. It ends now.” I feel him shift his focus to Mom. “I’m sorry, baby.”
I continue to cry in his arms as he speaks to me in broken whispers. “I just…I thought we were closer than that.”
“We were, we are,” I croak.
“Why didn’t you come to me? Why couldn’t you just ask me?”
“I wanted to, so much. I should have. I know that.”
In my father’s arms, and with his words, I feel some semblance of the peace I’ve been so desperate for. When we pull away, I see a reflected glimmer of hope in my dad’s eyes as he gazes back at me with unrestrained love.
“We’ll talk tomorrow, okay?”
I nod in quick agreement, my heart beating steadily in my chest, an incredible amount of weight starting to lift from my shoulders. It might take some more time, but the knowledge we both want to figure it out is all I need. Our gazes linger with that knowledge as hope starts to bloom in my chest. The idea that the universes I’ve been praying to merge together may become my future reality further stokes that hope.
Inhaling Dad’s scent, wrapped in the warmth of his budding forgiveness, for the first time since we went wheels up in Arizona, I take my first full breath.
Outside
Stained
Natalie
My parents exit the limo, eyes slightly splotched but sporting matching smiles. Mom and I did our best to repair the damage done to our makeup with the emergency kit the glam squad gifted us for our clutches. I watch them ascend the carpeted stairs surrounded by waiting paparazzi and give myself a little extra time to gather my emotions.
Glancing out of the window now while they pose at the top of the entrance of the hotel for a few pictures, I prepare myself for the long hours ahead. Even with the relief of knowing my relationship with my father is reparable, for the next few hours I’ll still have to play my part in the life I used to comfortably exist in—a life before I fell in love with Easton Crowne.
Urgency continues to build for me to shift my focus on the consistently aching part beating inside me—every one of the beats filled with longing to get back to its owner. Unclasping my clutch, I check my phone to see he hasn’t replied to my earlier text, and my heart cracks a little. He’s purposefully not answering me. More punishment. Briefly, I try to imagine where he is right now in his universe and what he’s thinking.
A soft knock on the limo window has me snapping to attention to see Jonathan—looking handsome in a fitted tux—standing just on the other side of the door. Opening it, he bends down and scans the cabin of the limo before sweeping me with his gaze.
“You plan on depriving the public of this view all night?”
“No, I was just…”
“Stalling,” he finishes for me, eyes roaming my face before confirming my upset. Before I was shunned from the paper, Jonathan and I became acquainted enough for me to be aware Rosie’s crush assessment of him was close. Jonathan is private, but shy would be a more accurate word to describe him rather than aloof. In our short time as work colleagues—close to bordering friendship—he gathered enough about me to be aware of where my head is at. If anything, the headlines I’m positive he’s read that speculate my marriage is a nonexistent farce have undoubtedly added to the sympathy in his gaze.
“Quite the dramatic entrance you planned,” he quips, rubbing beneath my eye with his thumb and then showing me a smudge of mascara I missed before offering his hand. Scattered chatter of the photographers engulfs us when I take his offered hand, exiting the limo, plastering a smile in place.
Jonathan eyes me as we turn toward the waiting chaos. “For God’s sake, Debbie Downer, straighten your shoulders because you’re rocking that fucking dress.”
Following orders, I toss them back as he shifts to guide me toward the stairs, placing his hand on the small of my back. I glance over at him just as he leans in, sporting a devilish grin. “I was hoping for a more masculine, mascara-smeared Cinderella to save me from looking stag and pathetic. But you’ll have to do.”
Releasing a strangled laugh, I shake my head at his candor as the flashes continue to fire off while he escorts me up the stairs.
An hour into the gala, pride sneaks into me as I, along with several others, watch my parents dance. Dad smiles down at Mom as they sway on the floor, his eyes filled with intimate amusement at whatever she said. The look he’s gracing her with is a telltale sign of a man who knows the details of the woman he’s holding because of the time he’s spent memorizing her. I know this because my husband looks at me much the same way. Immersed in the other in those few seconds, they seem completely unaware they’re being admired by those surrounding them.
How could I have been so fucking blind?
Maybe their story and beginning wasn’t as much of a fairytale as what I perceived in those emails—or perhaps it was. Just because I’m not privy to the details of their beginning doesn’t make it any less substantial.
No matter how they started, they’ve solidified their lives together for nearly a quarter of a century, and blind to it, I didn’t have enough faith in them to keep my curiosity from harming something they hold sacred. A marriage I’m sure they fought for over the years to keep together.
Remorse consumes me as they continue to dance surrounded by friends, colleagues, and Speak employees. As I watch, I wonder if I would have been satisfied if I had witnessed them in this capacity, just after discovering the emails.
Can I even regret what I did now?
Yes, but only for the hurt it caused.
Regret Easton? Never.
My phone buzzes repeatedly in my purse, and I ignore it, knowing Easton has to be prepping for his show. Everyone else can wait. Grabbing a glass of passing champagne, I toss it back, determined to get some enjoyment out of the night I’d planned down to the last detail for months. When Jonathan’s eyes catch mine from across the dance floor, his expression bleak as he lifts his cell phone up, I realize he’s the one texting.
Frowning, I set the glass down on a linen-covered high top and pull my phone out to see the link Jonathan sent. Clicking on it, I sway in shock and fear when a damning picture of Jonathan and me out front of the gala pops up. Bracing myself on the high top, I take note of every incriminating detail—his hand on the small of my back, face inches from mine, not to mention the smile we’re sharing. Every point of focus condemning even before I scan the scathing headline.
Is the newly Crowned media heiress already stepping out? An inside source reveals why being the wife of a rock star isn’t a fit for Hearst Media’s princess.”