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“I’m so proud of you, baby.”

The sentiment rings in my chest. “I feel it,” I say honestly.

Freshly showered and back at the hotel, I flip open the manuscript I tucked in my messenger bag and only get a few pages in before closing it. Even now, I don’t want to know Nate Butler’s fucking love story with my mother.

I don’t want to know the reasoning behind the man currently dividing and conquering my wife and me. I don’t want to fucking empathize withhimor understand his side in any way.

Furious with thoughts of this going on much longer, I push send and lift the phone to my ear before it goes to voicemail.

“This is Natalie Butler. Leave a message.”

The line beeps.

“It’s Crowne. Your name is Natalie Crowne,” I snap as the accumulating acid starts to pour out of me, “or did you fucking forget?”

FIFTY-SEVEN

“Unsteady”

X Ambassadors

Natalie

“Your name is Natalie Crowne . . . or did you fucking forget?” I replay the message Easton left last night, hearing his anger and frustration over the distance I’ve allowed between us. The last six weeks have been hell on earth for me, personally and professionally. On the rare occasions we’ve seen each other since Sedona, I clung to the hope that my father would finally look at me instead ofthrough me,and I am always disappointed. Whenever our paths do cross, it’s primarily thanks to my mother’s attempt to bridge the gap. Even so, he remains unreceptive. Dad still hasn’t called me back to my desk at the paper but instead has kept me scrambling to keep up with his demands. Demands I’ve met to keep him pacified while trying to reestablish some of the lost trust. A confrontation is coming and soon, because after the anniversary party wraps, I’m going to try and mend my rapidly deteriorating relationship with my husband.

Exiting the stretch limousine I commissioned for the night, I stand waiting in my parents’ driveway in a glittering, deep jade gown my mother had her stylist choose for me. The neckline runs snugly against my collarbone, while the back rests at the curve just below the small of it. It had to be taken in a little last week due to the grief-stricken pounds I’ve lost and kept off. It’s both elegant and sexy—her style—and it’s only now, as it glitters in the setting sun, that I start to appreciate it.

After the glam squad left my apartment, I couldn’t muster a single reaction other than feeling like a glossed-up lie—a living, breathingexpectationof my father. That seems to be the sum of my value now, at least when it comes to Nate Butler. Though I argued the same point with Easton recently, it isn’t the case. I’ve made the choices I have in recent weeks to be at my father’s side in an effort to fight for my future and his legacy. It feels like the aspect of choice got lost somewhere in my neck-breaking efforts to appease him. I can’t keep allowing him to dangle the paper over my head while keeping me at arm’s length—in exile.

In truth, I’m absolutely devastated and utterly shocked by my father’s behavior.

Dad’s done nothing to guard me from his anger. He’s not only furious about my part in the deception with Easton, but for hurting my mother and indirectly causing a small rift between them that could have cost him dearly. Even though they seemed to have bounced back, he refuses to truly look at me. More deplorably, I’ve allowed it. Allowed him to continue to order me around like I’m a grounded teenager instead of a nearly twenty-three-year-old woman capable of making her own life choices. But the truth is, I knew this is what loving the man I chose—marrying the man I chose—would cost me.

At this point, I feel I’ve paid enough.

Even if I’m justified in a lot of ways for my feelings, I also damned myself because I miss my father. His absence continues to rob me of security and peace of mind. I miss our easy camaraderie and our stress-releasing walks to the bar we used to frequent nearSpeakafter meeting excruciating deadlines. What I miss most are the moments that followed as we shared beers chattering bluntly, more like friends than father and daughter.

All traces of that dynamic are painfully absent, as my need to please him and get back into his good graces overshadows my relationship with Easton. I’ve been put in the impossible position to try and please the two men I love the most—and like I predicted—I feel like I’m losing no matter what steps I take and in what direction. The only assurances that we have a chance at moving past this come from my mother. She has tried her best to play referee between us, despite the utter disruption in our lives that my marriage has caused.

It’s only when I speak to Easton—when I soak in his face on the screen, evident with the love I reflect—that the cost feels like less of a burden. But in the last week, I can feel Easton’s resentment starting to overflow. It’s apparent my neglected marriage needs nurturing, and I know the only way to try to keep it together is to fly to Easton’s side or allow him to come to mine.

As luck would have it, tonight is all about the other man in my life. A celebration of Dad’s contribution to media, his accomplishments, and the empire he built in our corner of the universe. A universe he’s silently and painstakingly pointed out exists without a place for Easton Crowne.

With every day that ticks by, it’s become clear Easton is right. My father is at war with my husband, and it’s tearing us apart.

My bitterness toward Dad continues to build as I continue to wait next to the limo, too timid to walk through the front door of my own family home due to his ill-treatment.

Ironically, Dad insisted we arrive at the gala as a family, which for the moment, also feels like a lie. As I try to temper myself and hold it together, Dad exits the house looking gorgeous in a perfectly fitted tux with my mother in tow. Mom approaches, looking stunning in a glittering black gown that hugs her tiny frame. Her freshly colored, curly, dark hair is pulled up and pinned, her makeup flawless. “Baby, it’s chilly out here. Why didn’t you come inside?”

Because it’s even colder inside.

“Mom, you look . . . incredible,” I dodge her question. She reciprocates by side-stepping my compliment.

“And you look absolutely gorgeous, my sweetheart. The dress is perfect on you. Do you like it?”

“Love it, thank you,” I reply, grateful she went to the trouble to dress me. Most days, I feel like I’m on autopilot, simply going through the motions. Mom has tried her best to help me through it, taking long rides with me and simply listening. She’s been amazing in the boss department as well. Though my schedule has been grueling, if I wasn’t being constantly tasked, I’m not sure I would know my own direction. Inside I’m still fighting for the woman I dreamt I’d be—the one with her head straight and ever-changing goals within reach. Every day, I’m fighting for the bride I became, blooming rapidly under my husband’s loving gaze.

I glance over to Dad as he locks their front door, and Mom’s gaze trails mine. It’s then I feel the shift in energy. Seeing the light in her eyes start to dim, I muster a smile. “It’s going to be an incredible night.”

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