Emery’s POV
The morning after feels stolen from another life.
I wake slowly, consciousness seeping in like warm honey, and find myself tangled in Landon's arms. Sunlight streams through the curtains, painting golden stripes across the sheets, across his bare chest, across my skin where his hand rests against my hip.
The memory of last night still tingles beneath my skin—the restaurant, the ocean, the backseat of his car where we reclaimed something that felt almost lost. I stretch against him, savoring the delicious ache in my muscles, the tenderness between my thighs.
"Morning," he murmurs without opening his eyes, pulling me closer.
"Morning yourself." I press a kiss to his jaw, rough with stubble. "Sleep well?"
"Best I've slept in weeks." He finally opens his eyes, and the softness in them makes my heart stutter. "We should escape more often."
For a few precious hours, I allow myself to simply exist.
I feed Elsie in the nursery while morning light fills the room with warmth. She gurgles happily, her tiny fingers wrapping around mine, and I feel something loosen in my chest—that constant knot of anxiety temporarily unwound.
Harmony joins me for coffee in our private sitting room, and I find myself laughing—actually laughing—at her impression of Lily's reaction to being dismissed from the library last week.
"Her face," Harmony says, mimicking Lily's shocked expression with exaggerated precision. "Like she'd swallowed a lemon while simultaneously stepping in something unpleasant."
"Stop," I wheeze, coffee threatening to come out my nose. "You're terrible."
"I'm accurate. There's a difference."
Later, I watch Landon read the newspaper in the armchair by the window, Elsie dozing in his lap. He looks peaceful. Normal. Like a man without enemies waiting in the shadows of his own home.
I want to freeze this moment. Bottle it. Keep it somewhere safe where no one can touch it.
But by noon, the reprieve shatters.
The envelope arrives on a silver tray, carried by a staff member whose eyes won't meet mine. Thick cream paper. Gold embossing that catches the light. My name is in elegant calligraphy beside Landon's.
I know what it is before I open it.
The Remington Foundation Charity Gala. Two weeks away. Expected attendees listed in precise script, our names prominently featured as if this were an honor rather than a sentence.
This is not hospitality. This is a summons.
I stare at the invitation until the words blur, feeling the walls closing in around me with every breath. The event Marian is speaking at. The stage being set for whatever final blow they're planning.
Landon finds me in the nursery twenty minutes later, the invitation crumpled in my fist.
"I see you got it," he says quietly from the doorway.
I don't turn around. My eyes stay fixed on Elsie's crib, on her peaceful sleeping face, on everything I'm trying to protect.
"How long have you known?" My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
"My mother's been planning it for months." He crosses the room and stops beside me. "It's an annual event."
"And you didn't think to mention that they will invite me?"
"I was hoping—" He runs a hand through his hair. "I don't know what I was hoping. That something would change. That we'd find a way around it."
I finally look at him, holding up the crumpled paper. "This isn't an invitation. It's a trap."
"I know."
"Then why would we possibly—"
"Because refusing would be worse." His jaw tightens, frustration bleeding through his composure. "Think about it, Emery. After the tabloids, after Walsh pulling out, after everything they've already said about you—if we don't show up, it confirms every narrative they've been building."
"And if we do show up?"
"Then at least we control how we appear." He takes the invitation from my hand, smoothing the creases I've made. "Together. United. Showing them they haven't broken us."
I want to argue. I want to scream that this is exactly what they want—me walking into their arena, surrounded by their allies, photographed by journalists they've personally selected.
But I know he's right. I know that hiding now would be the final nail in a coffin they've been building since I arrived.
"She will be there, won’t she?" I ask.
The question hangs between us. I don't need to say Marian's name. We both know who I mean.
Landon's silence stretches one heartbeat too long.
"She's a featured speaker," he finally admits. "Presenting some award for the Foundation."
Something cold settles in my stomach. "Of course she is."
"Emery—"
"No." I take the invitation back from him, staring at the elegant script, the gold embossing, the careful presentation designed to make attendance feel like an honor. "No, you're right. We have to go."
He blinks, clearly expecting more of a fight. "You're sure?"
"I'm sure that I'm done hiding." I smooth the paper flat against my palm, pressing out the wrinkles, watching my reflection warp in the gold embossing. "I'm done reacting to whatever they throw at us and hoping to survive. If they want me at this gala, fine. I'll be there."
"Together," he says, reaching for my hand. "We face it together."
"Together," I agree. But even as I say it, something shifts inside me—a hardening, a resolve that feels different from anything I've felt before. "But this time, I won't walk in unprepared."
He frowns slightly. "What do you mean?"
"I mean I have two weeks." I fold the invitation carefully and slip it into my pocket. "Two weeks to learn everything I can about what they're planning. Two weeks to prepare for whatever trap they've set."
"Emery, I don't want you to—"
"To what?" I turn to face him fully, letting him see the steel in my eyes. "To fight back? To stop being the victim in their story?"
"To lose yourself." His hand cups my face, gentle despite the tension in his voice. "The woman I fell in love with—"
"The woman you fell in love with almost lost everything." I cover his hand with mine. "This is what surviving looks like now. This is who I have to be."
He searches my face for a long moment, something complicated moving behind his eyes. Then he nods, slow and reluctant.
"Okay. Whatever you need. I'm with you."
I lean into him, letting his arms wrap around me, drawing strength from his solidity. Through the nursery window, I can see the sprawling grounds of the estate—the carefully manicured gardens, the hidden cameras, the walls that have witnessed decades of Remington secrets.
Somewhere in this house, Portia is celebrating. She thinks this invitation is a victory, another move in her long game of destruction.
She doesn't know that I've stopped playing defense.
This time, when I walk into that ballroom, I will be ready for whatever trap they've set.