Emery’s POV
The tabloid arrives without warning, heavy with consequence.
I'm nursing Elsie in the quiet of our bedroom, humming to her as I tapped her belly softly. My phone began to vibrate continuously, never stopping. Reaching for it, I scrolled through my phone with one hand when the headline appeared in my news feed. My thumb freezes mid-scroll.
"Remington Heir's Foreign Bride: Manipulation or True Love?"
The words blur and sharpen as I read. A blind item from an anonymous source. A young foreign wife who manipulated her way into a powerful family. Pregnancy used as leverage to secure her position. Questions about mental fitness. Doubts about her motives. Suggestions that the Remington heir deserves better.
The details are vague enough to deny. But specific enough that anyone who knows our family will recognize me instantly.
My hands tremble as I scroll through the article, each line cutting deeper than the last. They've quoted "concerned insiders" who worry about the child's wellbeing. They've referenced "erratic behavior" witnessed by household staff. They've painted a portrait of a desperate woman clinging to a name she doesn't deserve.
Elsie pulls away from my breast, startled by my sudden stillness. I barely notice.
This isn't gossip. This isn't a coincidence.
This is strategy. This is Marian. Or Portia.
I settle Elsie in her crib with mechanical precision, my mind racing through possibilities. The article's timing, its careful phrasing, its surgical precision—everything points to someone who knows exactly how to destroy a reputation without leaving fingerprints.
"Stay here, baby," I whisper, pulling the nursery door closed behind me. "Mama will be right back."
I storm through the estate, my bare feet slapping against marble floors, searching for Landon. His study is empty. The library, abandoned. The staff I pass won't meet my eyes, and I know—I know—they've already seen the article. Already formed their opinions.
I find Portia first.
She's seated in the sunroom, afternoon light streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows, a cup of tea balanced perfectly in her manicured hands. When she looks up at my entrance, her expression shifts into something that confirms everything.
Satisfaction. Barely concealed, quickly masked, but unmistakable.
"Emery." She sets down her cup with deliberate care. "You look flushed, dear. Is everything all right?"
"Did you plant it?" The words come out raw, stripped of any pretense of civility. "The article. The anonymous source. Was it you?"
Her eyebrows rise in perfect imitation of surprise. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't." I step further into the room, my hands clenched at my sides. "Don't pretend you haven't seen it. Don't pretend you don't know exactly what's been published about me today."
Portia reaches for her tea again, her movements unhurried, infuriatingly calm. "If you're referring to some tabloid nonsense, I assure you I have better things to do than follow gossip columns."
"It's not gossip." My voice shakes with barely contained fury. "It's a coordinated attack. Someone with intimate knowledge of this household fed information to the press. Someone who wants me to look unstable, manipulative, unfit—"
"And you've decided that someone is me." She takes a delicate sip, watching me over the rim of her cup. "How interesting."
"Who else would benefit from destroying my reputation?"
The question hangs in the air between us. Portia sets down her cup and folds her hands in her lap, studying me with an expression that walks the line between concern and condescension.
"Emery, dear." Her voice softens into something almost gentle. "I understand that new motherhood can be overwhelming. The hormones, the sleep deprivation, the pressure of adjusting to a new environment—"
"Don't." I feel the rage building behind my ribs, pressing against my chest until I can barely breathe. "Don't you dare turn this around on me."
"I'm not turning anything around." She tilts her head, sympathy dripping from every word. "I'm simply observing that you seem... fragile. Paranoid, even. Perhaps the stress is affecting your judgment more than you realize."
The words land exactly where she intends them—right in the wound the article opened.
She's building the narrative in real time, right in front of me, and there's nothing I can do to stop it.
"If someone has published unflattering things about you," Portia continues, "perhaps you should consider why. What behavior might have led to such conclusions? What impression have you been making on the people around you?"
I open my mouth to respond, to scream, to defend myself—but I stop.
This is what she wants. Every raised voice, every accusation, every moment of lost control becomes evidence in her case against me. If I explode, I will prove the article right. If I break down, I confirm their narrative.
I will not give them the reaction they want.
"Thank you for your concern." The words taste like ash in my mouth. "I'll let you enjoy your tea."
I turn and walk away before she can respond, my spine straight, my steps measured, every muscle in my body screaming with the effort of restraint.
Back in my room, I close the door and lean against it, finally allowing my composure to crack. My reflection stares back at me from the vanity mirror—pale, wild-eyed, trembling with suppressed emotion.
I cross to the mirror and study the woman looking back at me. I see what they're building now, with perfect, terrible clarity.
A young foreign wife, overwhelmed by motherhood, cracking under pressure. A woman prone to paranoid accusations and emotional outbursts. Someone who cannot be trusted with a child, with a legacy, with anything that matters.
The whispers in the corridors. The careful documentation of my "difficult" behavior. The tabloid article, painting me as a manipulator. The concerned mother-in-law, suggesting that I might be unwell.
It's all connected. Every thread, every carefully placed detail, weaving together into a trap I didn't see closing around me until now.
The narrative isn't about destroying me publicly. It's about creating a record. A pattern. Evidence that can be produced later—in court, in custody proceedings, in whatever final blow they're planning.
My hands press flat against the cool glass of the mirror, and I watch my breath fog the surface.
The trap is closing. And I have no idea how to escape it.