Emery’s POV
I know something has shifted the moment Landon appears in our bedroom doorway.
His jaw is locked so tight I can see the tension radiating through his neck, down into his shoulders. His hands hang at his sides, but they're trembling—barely perceptible, unless you know him the way I do.
Unless you love him the way I do.
"What happened?" I set aside the baby monitor I've been clutching like a lifeline and rise from the armchair.
He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he crosses to the window and stares out at the grounds, his back rigid, his breathing carefully controlled. The silence stretches until I can't bear it anymore.
"Landon." I move to stand beside him, close enough to touch but not touching. "Talk to me."
"I confronted her." His voice comes out rough, like the words are scraping against something raw inside him. "My mother. I went to her wing and I told her everything I should have said months ago."
My heart pounds against my ribs. "What did you say?"
He turns to face me, and I see it all written in his expression—the fury, the fear, the strange exhilaration of finally breaking free from something that's held him captive his entire life.
"I told her I know about Marian. That I know they've been coordinating, planning, circling you like predators." He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it disheveled. "She tried to deny it at first. Then she changed tactics. Started talking about duty and legacy and everything I'm supposedly throwing away by staying with you."
"And?" My voice is barely a whisper.
"I told her if she comes for you again—through tabloids, through Marian, through any of her games—I will choose you." His eyes lock onto mine with an intensity that steals my breath. "Over everything. Over the company. Over the family name. Over her."
Part of me wants to feel triumph. This is what I've wanted—for him to stand up to Portia, to draw a line in the sand, to prove that our marriage means more than her approval. But another part of me, the part that has learned to read danger in every shadow of this house, feels something else entirely.
Fear crystallizing into certainty.
"What did she say?" I ask carefully.
"That choices have consequences." His jaw tightens again. "That I'd come crawling back. That sentiment is weakness and weakness gets destroyed."
"That's a threat."
"I know." He reaches for my hand, his fingers intertwining with mine. "But I meant what I said, Emery. I'm done playing by her rules. I'm done trying to keep one foot in each world."
I squeeze his hand and pull him toward the bed, sitting on the edge and tugging him down beside me. For a long moment, we just sit there, our shoulders touching, processing the weight of what he's done.
"You stood up to her," I say finally. "Really stood up to her."
"I should have done it years ago." He stares at our joined hands. "When I first saw how she treated you. When I watched you disappear into the shadows of this house and did nothing to stop it."
"You're here now." I lean my head against his shoulder. "That's what matters."
But even as I say the words, I feel the danger gathering around us. Portia doesn't accept defiance. I've learned that lesson in a thousand small ways since I married into this family. She punishes it. She dismantles it. She waits and watches and strikes when you least expect it.
Landon stood up to her today. Tomorrow, she will make him pay.
Make us pay.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
Landon lies beside me, finally at rest after hours of tossing. His breathing has settled into a steady rhythm, his face relaxed in a way I rarely see during waking hours. Whatever peace he found in confronting his mother, it's allowed him to let go—at least for now.
But my mind won't stop racing.
I stare at the ceiling, shadows shifting in the darkness, and run through possibilities like cards in a deck. What will Portia do next? She won't accept this quietly. She'll recalibrate, reposition, find new angles of attack.
And Marian. That glowing profile in the tabloids wasn't coincidence. She's been positioning herself for something larger, something coordinated with Portia's campaign against me.
How deep does this conspiracy run? How many of the staff answer to Portia first and us second? How many conversations have been reported, how many moments cataloged for future use against me?
I've been playing defense since I arrived. Reacting to every attack, surviving each new assault, just trying to keep my head above water. But survival isn't enough anymore. Not with Elsie's future at stake. Not with my marriage becoming a battlefield where every moment of connection must be fought for and protected.
If I want to protect my daughter, my husband, my sanity—I need to understand the battlefield. I need information.
The staff who avoid my eyes. The whispers that stop when I enter a room. The decades of secrets buried within these walls, layer upon layer of hidden truths that give Portia her power.
Someone in this house knows where the bodies are hidden. Someone has seen things, heard things, watched the Remington machine consume anyone who dared challenge it.
I just need to find them.
By the time gray light begins filtering through the curtains, a plan has taken shape in my mind. Not escape this time. Not running to some distant place where the Remington name can't reach us.
Excavation.
I will dig into the foundation of this family until I find something they cannot deny. Something that shifts the balance of power. Something that gives me leverage against the people who have spent months trying to destroy me.
I slip out of bed as Landon stirs, pressing a kiss to his forehead before he fully wakes.
"Where are you going?" he murmurs, reaching for me.
"Just checking on Elsie." I smooth the hair from his face. "Go back to sleep."
He nods and closes his eyes again, trusting me completely.
I stand in the doorway and watch him for a moment—this man who finally chose me over his mother, who drew a line in the sand and dared her to cross it. He thinks his declaration will protect us. He thinks love and loyalty will be enough.
But I know better now. I know how this house works.
Love isn't a shield. It's a target.
If I want to survive what's coming, I need weapons of my own.