Epilogue
NATALIE
ONE YEAR LATER
T he limo smelled like new leather, champagne, and the kind of overpriced cologne Easton swore wasn’t “too much,” even though I caught two makeup artists swooning as we passed.
I sat beside him in a floor-length black satin gown with a slit that made him lose his train of thought every time I shifted my leg.
Not that I minded.
“You’re staring,” I said as the car crept down the press gauntlet outside the theater.
“I’m married to the most beautiful woman in the world,” he said, shrugging, like it was just a fact. “I’m legally allowed to stare. It’s in our vows.”
“I don’t remember that part.”
“You were too busy crying because I said you were my miracle,” he said with a wink, reaching over to tuck a piece of hair behind my ear. “Also, you look like sin tonight. Like I should take you home before the press get a look at you.”
I arched a brow. “You really want to deprive the world of this?” I motioned to my whole vibe like a game-show girl showcasing a luxury yacht .
He leaned close, his mouth brushing the shell of my ear. “I’d rather unwrap my present in private, Mrs. Maddox.”
My breath hitched.
“Behave,” I whispered.
"Never," he whispered back.
The car slowed. Through the tinted glass, the red carpet lit up under the flashes of cameras and a sea of shining voices. His name was already echoing from reporters, fans, someone with a glittery sign that said EASTON MARRY ME—which frankly, felt a bit late, and was definitely copying me.
“You ready for this?” he asked.
I smirked. “I’ve survived worse.”
“Like?”
“Like the time your mom gave me a detailed lecture on your childhood rashes over brunch.”
He grimaced. “Fair.”
The driver opened the door, and the night exploded into sound and color and heat.
The moment my heels hit the carpet, the crowd roared. For him, obviously. But I held my head high like it was for me, too.
Because maybe, in a way, it was.
I wasn’t just his date . I wasn’t the girl who’d almost let fear write the ending of her story. I was Natalie Maddox now. Confident. In love. Whole.
And entirely uninterested in pretending otherwise.
Easton came around to take my hand like we were the only two people in the world. “Ready to cause a tabloid scandal, Trouble?”
“Always.”
We posed, turned, smiled. I pretended to fix his bow tie while he whispered things entirely inappropriate for public consumption, and I whispered back that I was going to make him pay for it later.
“Easton! Natalie! Over here!”
“Give us a kiss! ”
He turned to me with a grin and dipped me dramatically, pressing a slow, movie-worthy kiss to my mouth that had half the crowd cheering and the other half probably fainting.
“You’re such a show-off,” I murmured as he helped me upright.
“Only when the prize is this good.”
Interviewers stopped us with bright lights and flashcards. One of them leaned in with a grin, mic angled toward Easton.
“So, what was it like working with Vanessa Blake? You two had insane chemistry on screen.”
Easton gave a practiced smile, the kind that was perfectly measured but meant nothing. “Vanessa’s a pro,” he said, his tone smooth and polite. “She knows how to make a scene work.”
The interviewer’s eyes flicked to me—just for a second. A sly little glance, like he thought he was being subtle. Like I wasn’t standing right there, hand locked with Easton’s.
And then, with all the grace of a man who’d definitely watched too many gossip reels, he leaned in. “Any truth to those romance rumors from the set?”
I didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just smiled sweetly, envisioning MeMaw popping out of the crowd with a salad fork and throwing it right at this guy’s head.
Easton laughed lightly, but his hand never left mine. “People love to talk,” he said, noncommittal, easy. “I save my real-life romance for off-camera.”
Then he looked at me—just me—and gave a small, secret smile that made my heart melt right through my dress.
“Oh my gosh,” I muttered under my breath, fanning my face like a flustered fangirl. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You love it.”
“Yeah,” I said softly, “I really do.”
After the last photo op, we slipped inside the velvet-roped lobby where champagne flowed, heels clicked, and the stars looked only slightly less intimidating than marble pillars.
I leaned into Easton’s side as we stepped toward the theater entrance, my arm looped through his. “Did I tell you how good you look tonight?” I murmured, my lips brushing his ear.
He grinned. “You did. Repeatedly. With tongue.”
“Well,” I said, lowering my voice just enough. “Then I should probably also tell you…I’m not wearing panties.”
He stopped walking.
Just—stopped, mid-stride. His whole body went still like I’d yanked the emergency brake on his brain.
I smiled and kept going.
“Natalie,” he said, catching up with a growl so low I felt it more than heard it.
“Yes, Mr. Maddox?”
He stepped in behind me, his hand landing low on my waist, his breath warm against my ear as he leaned in close—close enough that no one else could hear what he said.
“You’re evil.”
I felt the slight shift of his hips, the unmistakable press of his bulge against my back—hard, solid, undeniable.
My knees nearly buckled.
“Feel that?” he murmured, his voice thick with hunger.
I swallowed. “You seem…enthusiastic.”
“That’s what you do to me.”
I didn’t even try to hide my smile. “Sometimes I forget how much you’ve got going on down there until it tries to introduce itself.”
“I’m dying,” he said, his voice a rough rasp of barely restrained desire as he adjusted himself behind me with an exhale that was practically a prayer. “Give me five minutes. One of those marble-tiled premiere bathrooms. I’ll remind you.”
I turned to face him, arching a brow. “Oh? But that would make me miss the movie,” I said innocently. “And as you know…I’ve been so excited about it.”
He stared at me like he was seconds away from hauling me off right then and there. “I’ll make it worth your while,” he tried to say, all charming-like.
I brushed my lips across his jaw and winked. “The show’s about to start, Hollywood. Can’t upstage yourself.”
He groaned softly, and adjusted his tux jacket—less for fashion, more for survival’s sake. “You’re going to kill me.”
I smiled sweetly and tugged him toward the theater doors. “Better make it through the premiere, Mr. Maddox. You’ve got a very long night ahead of you.”
The theater doors opened, and instantly a hush fell over the room as the two of us walked in. Red velvet seats stretched in perfect symmetry before us, and the low hum of conversation dimmed into a curious quiet.
The kind of quiet that came with recognition.
With star power.
Easton Maddox didn’t just walk into rooms—he shifted gravity.
And now, I was the one at his side, gown whispering against my legs, hand tucked confidently into his. Heads turned. Cameras flashed one last time as we stepped down the aisle, headed for the front row where Reserved tags with our names waited.
“Still with me?” he asked, his voice low, eyes scanning the room like a wolf making sure no one else even thought about touching what was his.
I smiled. “Always.”
An older gentleman with glasses and a clipboard stepped up to Easton just as we reached our seats and gave a little nod. “They’re ready for you, Mr. Maddox.”
Easton looked at me, kissed the back of my hand, and whispered, “Don’t go anywhere.”
“Not a chance,” I said, settling in and watching as he walked onto the small, spotlighted stage before the massive screen. He paused for a moment, adjusting the microphone, then gave the crowd a sexy, humble smile that made half the theater sigh .
“Hey, everyone. Thanks for coming. I’ll try to be quick—my wife promised me a reward if I don’t cry or overshare.”
Cue polite laughter, a few whistles, and my entire face catching fire.
He looked right at me.
And he softened.
“This film was special for a lot of reasons…the cast, the crew, the story we got to tell. But if I’m honest, what made it unforgettable was what was happening when the cameras weren’t rolling.
Somewhere between the chaos and the quiet…
I got her back. The girl who’s always been it for me.
The one who saw all of me before any of this mattered.
And somehow still wanted me after. That’s what made this one different. That’s what made it everything.”
I swallowed hard.
“She’s in the front row tonight,” he said, his voice softer now. “And every time a scene pushed me to the edge—when I wasn’t sure I could pull it off—I thought about her. Because if I could reach her, if I could make her feel something…then I knew it meant something.”
My eyes stung.
“I married the love of my life this year,” he finished. “And this film is for her.”
Thunderous applause erupted.
He gave a short, humble bow and returned to his seat, slipping into the plush velvet beside me like he hadn’t just shattered every woman in the room.
I leaned over and whispered, “That’s definitely gonna get you laid, Hollywood.”
He grinned and kissed the corner of my mouth. “Just wanted to remind you that you’re stuck with me.”
The lights dimmed.
The audience hushed in that sacred, anticipatory breath that lives just before the opening shot of a film. The screen flickered to life, and within seconds, there he was. Gritty. Bleeding. Desperate.
Brilliant.
He wasn’t just good.
He was magnificent .
And I would’ve had a religious experience watching it, if his fingers weren’t inching up my thigh like he had a completely different film in mind. This had become a habit, apparently. Breaking PG-13 ratings in public.
And honestly? I wasn’t even mad about it.
His thumb brushed the inside of my leg, slow and lazy, as though he had all the time in the world to ruin me. The silk of my gown shifted as he found bare skin, and my breath hitched.
On screen, his character was delivering a raw monologue, voice wrecked and shaking, tears in his eyes as he fell to his knees in the pouring rain.
Beside me?