Knowing the threat the outside world poses to us, and along with turning off our phones, Easton instructed Joel not to update us if the news broke. We both banked on the slight chance we would be able to reach our parents before we made headlines. “Easton, tell me. How bad is it? What did Joel say?”
He hastily pulls on a T-shirt, expression full of dread, just as yelling ensues outside the door. “He’s here.”
The question of who is answered when my father’s voice booms in reply to Joel’s. All the blood drains from my face as our honeymoon bubble bursts in the same instant.
“Oh my God,” I cup my mouth in horror, the impact of what’s happening jerking me into full consciousness.
“Fuck,” Easton mutters. “How in the hell did he find us?”
“He’s a seasoned journalist and very resourceful, but if he knows, that means we made headlines and—”
“—my parents know too,” Easton finishes, his venom meant for his suspect. “That motherfucker, I knew he wouldn’t sit on our certificate.”
“We could have been outed at the concert,” I say, fairly certain someone might have seen or captured our overindulgent lip-lock on the side of the stage. Anyone with footage like that would be granted a substantial payday for it.
Panicked tears threaten as I imagine my father laying witness to his worst nightmare while I scan our destroyed room, knowing the rest of the villa is in similar shape. We’d opted out of maid service to remain in our cocoon, and because we did, the state of our temporary home is damning. Forgoing a useless attempt to clean up, I rush to a nearby floor-to-ceiling mirror. Frantically running my fingers through my sex-tousled hair, I spot several unmistakable love bites on my neck and chest. Pulling my robe tighter, Joel’s voice comes in more clearly on the other side of the front door. “Sir, please, calm down.”
“Open the fucking door! Natalie!” My father’s reply elevates my panic into a full-on attack.
Don’t shut down.
Even as I imagined the wrath we were both sure to face at some point today, I never once thought it would be in this setting. Easton’s return gaze tells me he didn’t either. I’d hoped to deal with my father privately, at home, without Easton present. Panic rears its ugly head, paralyzing me as Joel and my father argue outside—their voices becoming more aggressive. Turning back to the mirror, I continue to try and wrestle my appearance.
“Beauty, look at me,” Easton commands in a level tone from where he stands a few feet away, and I lift my eyes to focus on his reflection. “No, look at me.”
Glancing over to where he stands, I find no trace of fear before giving him a firm nod. We silently exchange assurances in our decision to live permanently on this side of the glass. This is our reality now. We made it this way.
Unified, position clear, Easton heads for the door, and I trail him a few feet behind. When Easton opens it, I instantly catch my father’s eyes as they blaze down Easton’s frame over Joel’s shoulder, his features twisted in undeniable fury.
Joel stands as a human shield in the doorway, a wall between Easton and Dad as they stare off for the first time. That is until Dad’s eyes catch mine.
“Daddy,” I croak, feeling the crippling impact of the hurt and rage in his stare as Joel’s shoulders go rigid in preparation.
“Joel, let him through,” Easton says, opening the door further in invitation for my father.
“Easton,” Joel objects as Easton shakes his head and cuts through it.
“Let him through,” Easton says more firmly.
Joel glances back at him warily but relents. “I’ll be right outside.”
Easton nods, and Joel steps aside as my father’s scowl returns to Easton before he strides into the room and stops, his arctic gaze zeroing in on the bed behind my shoulder before he surveys the villa. I take in the view as he does—empty champagne bottles everywhere, clothes that were discarded in haste to get naked exactly where we left them. A slew of used room service trays cover the table and kitchen island. Dad stops between the living and dining room, chest heaving, seeming to try and collect himself while casting his gaze out the sliding glass doors that lead to the patio. His gritted first words are meant for me. “Please, put some fucking clothes on.”
His scathing order covers every inch of my exposed skin as he keeps his back to me. I make a mad dash to our room and pull on some shorts and a T-shirt before racing back to the living room. As I do, I glance over at Easton, who stands a few feet away, his expression like granite, posture guarded, which means he’s already on the defensive. Even so, I know he’s determined to keep his temper in check to try and reason with my dad—which gives me a ray of hope.