Emery’s POV
The first week inside the estate passes like a slow suffocation.
Portia never confronts me directly. She doesn't need to. Instead, she rewrites the rules around me, brick by invisible brick, until I feel the walls closing in even as I stand in the center of a room.
Staff schedules shift without notice. The housekeeper who brought my morning tea on Monday is gone by Wednesday, replaced by a woman who won't meet my eyes. The cook who smiled when I asked about Elsie's meal options suddenly defers every question to Portia's wing.
I woke up Thursday morning to find the nursery rearranged. Elsie's crib has been moved to the opposite wall. Her mobile—the one I chose, the one that plays the lullaby she loves—has been replaced with something elaborate and unfamiliar. Even the changing table sits at a different angle, as if someone wants me to feel like a stranger in my own daughter's room.
I'm standing in the doorway, cataloging every change, when a voice cuts through the silence.
"Mrs. Remington?"
I turn to find a woman I've never seen before. She's middle-aged, professionally dressed, with a practiced smile that doesn't reach her eyes.
"I'm Helena," she says, extending her hand. "Mrs. Portia Remington has arranged for me to assist with the baby. A gift for the new mother, she said."
My blood runs cold. "I didn't request a nanny."
"Of course not." Her smile doesn't waver. "Mrs. Remington Senior anticipated you might need support. The transition must be difficult."
I look at her outstretched hand and don't take it. Something hot and dangerous rises in my chest—not anger, but certainty.
"Thank you for coming," I say, my voice steady. "But your services won't be needed."
Helena's smile falters. "I'm sorry?"
"I said no." I step closer, holding her gaze. "My daughter has a mother. She doesn't need a replacement arranged behind my back."
"Mrs. Remington Senior was quite specific—"
"I don't care what she was." I move past her into the nursery and lift Elsie from the unfamiliar crib, pressing her warm body against my chest. "You can tell Portia that if she wants to discuss childcare arrangements, she can speak to me directly. Until then, please leave."
Helena stands frozen for a long moment, clearly calculating whether to push back. Whatever she sees in my face makes her reconsider.
"As you wish," she says finally, and disappears down the corridor.
I hold Elsie tighter and whisper against her soft hair. "No one takes you from me. No one."
* * *
Dinner that evening is a battlefield disguised as a meal.
Portia sits at the head of the table, serene as always, cutting her salmon into precise bites. Lily scrolls through her phone between courses, performatively bored. Landon sits beside me, his hand finding my knee under the tablecloth—a silent reassurance I desperately need.
The first course passes in tense silence. The second brings small talk about business matters that don't concern me. I'm almost starting to relax when Lily looks up from her phone with a smile too sweet to be genuine.
"So, Emery." She sets down her fork with theatrical care. "How are you adjusting to motherhood? It must be overwhelming for someone with no experience."
The words land like a slap wrapped in silk. I feel Landon stiffen beside me.
"Lily—" he starts.
"It's fine." I cut him off gently, my hand covering his under the table. Then I turn to Lily, meeting her eyes directly. "Actually, I'm adjusting quite well. Motherhood comes naturally when you're motivated by love rather than obligation."
Lily's smile wavers.
"What I find overwhelming," I continue, my voice calm and clear enough for every staff member in the room to hear, "is the constant suggestion that I'm somehow inadequate. The rearranged nursery. The surprise nanny. The schedule changes are designed to make me feel like a guest in my own home."
I let my gaze drift to Portia. "If there are concerns about my parenting, I'd prefer they be raised directly rather than through manipulation."
The silence that follows is absolute. A server freezes mid-pour. Lily's mouth opens and closes without sound. Even Portia's knife pauses above her plate.
When Portia finally speaks, her voice is dangerously pleasant. "I'm sure no one intended to manipulate you, dear."
"Then I'm sure no one will mind if I make the decisions regarding my daughter from now on." I hold her gaze without flinching. "Without interference."
Portia's eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. She sets down her knife and dabs her napkin against her lips.
"Of course," she says smoothly. "Whatever makes you comfortable."
But I see it—the calculation behind her courtesy. She's not surrendering. She's recalibrating.
Later that night, I stand in the nursery with my arms crossed, watching Elsie sleep in the crib, I've moved back to its original position. The mobile plays her familiar lullaby, the sound soft in the darkness.
Footsteps approach from the hallway. I don't turn around.
"Hey." Landon's voice is gentle. "I've been looking for you."
"I've been here." I keep my eyes on Elsie's peaceful face. "Making sure nothing else changes overnight."
He crosses the room and stands behind me, close enough that I feel his warmth against my back. "Are you all right?"
The question is simple. My answer is not.
"No." The word comes out raw and honest. "I'm not all right. I feel like I'm drowning in this house all over again, except this time I'm supposed to smile and pretend it isn't happening."
He wraps his arms around me from behind, his chin resting on my shoulder as we both watch our daughter breathe.
"You were incredible at dinner," he murmurs against my hair. "The way you handled Lily, the way you stood your ground..."
"Standing your ground doesn't mean you're winning." I lean back into him, letting his solidity anchor me. "It just means you haven't lost yet."
"That's not nothing."
"It's not enough either."
For a moment, with his arms around me and Elsie sleeping safely in her crib, the walls of this house feel less permanent. Like maybe they're not made of stone after all.
But I know better. I know Portia. She doesn't accept defeat—she simply changes tactics. Today's dinner was a battle, not the war. She's already planning her next move, adjusting her strategy, finding new ways to make me question my own reality.
"She won't stop," I say quietly. "Your mother. This is just the beginning."
Landon tightens his hold on me. "Then we face whatever comes next together."
I want to believe him. I want to trust that together is enough to survive this house.
But deep down, I know the truth. Portia has spent decades perfecting the art of destruction. And the woman I was before—the one who smiled through pain and apologized for existing—couldn't survive here.
This woman will. She has to.