Marian’s POV
The destruction tastes like a 2018 Château Margaux—rich, complex, and utterly intoxicating.
I curl into the corner of my leather sectional, wine glass cradled in my palm, scrolling through the comments beneath the tabloid article with something close to bliss.
The penthouse glitters around me—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, modern art that cost more than most people's homes, every surface carefully curated to project exactly who I am.
Or who I'm meant to become.
Foreign gold digger using a baby to trap one of the city's most eligible men, someone has written. Three hundred likes.
She looks unstable in every photo. Those dead eyes. That forced smile. Landon deserves better.
Classic manipulation. Get pregnant, secure the fortune, then watch the marriage crumble. Seen it a thousand times.
I sip my wine and let the comments wash over me like warm bathwater. Strangers on the internet, tearing apart a woman they've never met, questioning her motives, her fitness, her right to exist in Landon's world.
They don't know her. They don't need to.
All they need is a narrative—one I've carefully provided through anonymous tips and strategic leaks. The rest is human nature, ugly and predictable and beautiful in its cruelty.
My phone buzzes against the cushion. The name on the screen makes my pulse quicken.
Portia Remington.
I answer on the second ring, keeping my voice composed. "Good evening."
"Walsh withdrew." Portia's voice carries something rare—warmth, approval, the faintest hint of pride. "Completely. The board is in chaos."
I close my eyes and savor the confirmation like another sip of wine. "The article worked, then."
"Better than expected." I hear ice clinking in a glass on her end—she's celebrating too. "Landon looked devastated when he left the meeting. Utterly broken."
"Good." The word comes out harder than I intended, so I soften it with a laugh. "I mean—this is exactly what we needed. Pressure from multiple directions."
"You've done well, Marian." The praise settles into my chest like sunlight after a long winter. "My son has always needed guidance he was too stubborn to accept. Sometimes the guidance must come from... external sources."
I set down my wine glass and lean forward, my mind already racing ahead. "The article was just the opening move. If we want her credibility to collapse entirely, we need to build the narrative layer by layer."
"What do you have in mind?"
"The Remington Foundation Charity Gala." I've been planning this for weeks, turning it over in my mind like a chess problem. "It's the perfect venue. Neutral ground where she'll feel exposed. Cameras everywhere. Hundreds of witnesses ready to interpret her every expression."
Portia's silence tells me she's considering it, weighing the variables. "Go on."
"She'll have to attend—refusing would confirm the narrative that she's hiding something." I stand and begin pacing, the view of the city spreading before me like a kingdom waiting to be claimed. "And once she's there, surrounded by people who've read every article, who've already formed their opinions..."
"Every flinch will be documented. Every falter will be preserved."
"Exactly." I catch my reflection in the window—polished, poised, every inch the woman who belongs at Landon's side. "We don't even need her to do anything dramatic. We just need her to look uncomfortable. Anxious. Unstable. The cameras will do the rest."
"The gala is three weeks away." Portia's voice turns thoughtful, calculating. "Plenty of time."
"Plenty of time to plant more seeds," I agree. "More anonymous sources. More 'concerned insiders' questioning her fitness as a mother. By the time she walks into that ballroom, half the guests will already believe she's falling apart."
"And the other half will be watching for proof."
"Which we'll make sure they find."
The satisfaction in Portia's laugh sends a thrill down my spine. This is what I've wanted for years—not just her tolerance, not just her strategic alliance, but her genuine approval. Her recognition that I understand this world, that I can navigate its currents and manipulate its tides as skillfully as she can.
"I'll have my assistant coordinate with the event planners," Portia says. "Your name will be added to the speaker list. A brief presentation on the Foundation's charitable initiatives should provide... ample opportunity."
"Perfect." I'm already imagining it—standing at the podium, commanding the room, while Emery sits silent at Landon's side, clapping on cue like trained decoration. "Should I reach out to any particular journalists?"
"I'll handle the press list. You focus on your speech." A pause. "And Marian? Don't overplay your hand. Subtlety has always been your strongest asset."
"I understand."
"Good. I'll be in touch."
The call ends, and I stand motionless at the window, watching the city lights glitter below. From this height, everything looks ordered, controllable—a landscape of power and possibility waiting for those bold enough to claim it.
I allow myself to imagine what comes next.
Landon, finally free from the mistake he made. Returning to me not out of obligation or family pressure, but out of recognition. Understanding that I was always the right choice. That Emery was a temporary madness, a detour from the path we were meant to walk together.
The Remington name, finally attached to mine. Mrs. Marian Remington. The title that should have been mine years ago, before that woman appeared from nowhere and stole what I'd spent my life building toward.
And the child—raised properly, away from Emery's influence. I don't hate the baby. How could I? She's Landon's daughter, part of his legacy, innocent of her mother's manipulations. In time, she'll come to understand that I gave her a better life. That sometimes love means protecting people from those who claim to love them.
I return to the couch and retrieve my wine glass, swirling the dark liquid slowly.
This is not cruelty. I repeat it to myself like a mantra, like a prayer. This is correction.
Emery forced her way into a world she doesn't understand, a world she was never equipped to survive. She'll be happier once she's free of it—free of the pressure, the scrutiny, the constant inadequacy of trying to become something she can never be.
I'm saving Landon from a mistake. I'm giving that child a chance at a real family. I'm restoring order to a situation that went wrong somewhere, somehow, when I wasn't paying attention.
The wine slips down my throat, smooth and expensive and earned.
By the time I finish the glass, I almost believe it.