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.”
Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck.
Rushing toward the balcony doors adjacent to the ballroom, I feel the weight of the implication of the picture hit me as I continually study it. Jonathan and I look smitten. Dread circulates through me when another notification banner shows two missed calls from EC. I immediately hit it, dialing him back while I glance around, thankful no one is in clear earshot. He answers on the first ring. The call seconds start to tick by without a word spoken from him as I jump right in.