Emery’s POV
I find Harmony in the nursery the next morning, Elsie balanced on her hip while she hums something soft and melodic.
"I need your help," I say without preamble.
She turns, her expression sharpening as she reads something in my face. "The gala."
"Everything you can find out. Guest list. Speakers. Which journalists have been invited." I cross my arms, feeling the weight of what I'm asking settle between us. "I need to know exactly what I'm walking into."
Harmony nods slowly, settling Elsie into her crib with practiced ease. "That's a lot of information to gather in two weeks."
"Can you do it?"
A small smile curves her lips. "Drivers talk to drivers. Housekeepers trade stories when they cross paths at events. Caterers remember everything." She meets my eyes with quiet confidence. "I can work with that."
And this charming, talented woman does just that. She delivers within days.
I'm in our private sitting room when she appears with a folder tucked under her arm, her expression carrying the weight of bad news carefully contained.
"Sit down," she says, settling across from me. "This is going to take a while."
She opens the folder and spreads papers across the coffee table—handwritten notes, printed guest lists, a speaker schedule someone must have photographed and sent to her.
"Marian is the featured speaker," Harmony begins. "She's presenting an award for philanthropic excellence. From what I've gathered, she's been rehearsing her speech for weeks."
My stomach tightens, but I keep my voice steady. "What else?"
"The press list." She slides a paper toward me. "Three gossip columnists known for their cruelty. All of them received personal invitations from Portia's office."
I scan the names. Two of them wrote pieces about me after the hospital incident. The third authored the tabloid article that started this whole nightmare.
"They're not there to cover the event," I say quietly. "They're there to cover me."
"That's my read, too." Harmony's voice softens with something like sympathy. "The seating arrangement puts Marian at the head table. She'll have direct sightlines to the podium and the press section. You and Landon are seated slightly off-center—visible, but positioned to look secondary."
The picture crystallizes in my mind with terrible clarity. Every detail engineered to showcase Marian while I watch from Landon's side. Present but diminished. Unable to compete.
"They want me to sit there and applaud," I murmur. "While she stands in the spotlight, commanding the room."
"That's exactly what they want." Harmony gathers the papers and taps them into a neat stack. "The question is what you're going to do about it."
I take the folder from her and hold it against my chest like armor. "I'm going to be ready."
* * *
I wait until dinner to share what I've learned.
We're alone in our private dining room, candles flickering between us, the estate settling into its evening quiet. Landon looks tired—the kind of exhaustion that comes from fighting battles on multiple fronts.
"I know what they're planning," I say, setting down my fork. "For the gala."
His eyes sharpen with immediate attention. "Tell me."
I walk him through everything—Marian's speaking role, the handpicked journalists, the seating arrangement designed to diminish me. I watch his expression shift as I speak, moving from surprise to anger to something quieter, more troubled.
When I finish, silence stretches between us. He stares at the candles, his jaw working through thoughts he hasn't voiced.
"You've been investigating," he says finally. "Behind my back."
"Not behind your back." I reach for his hand across the table. "With Harmony's help. The staff network she mentioned—"
"I know what she mentioned." He doesn't pull away, but his fingers remain still beneath mine. "You've changed, Emery."
I wait for the approval. For recognition that I'm finally fighting back, finally becoming someone who can survive this world.
Instead, he turns his hand over and captures mine, his thumb tracing across my knuckles with aching gentleness.
"I don't want you to fight," he says quietly.
The words hit me like a physical blow. "What?"
"The woman I fell in love with—" He pauses, something raw moving behind his eyes. "She was gentle. Kind. Sweet. She saw the best in people even when they didn't deserve it."
"That woman—"
"Let me finish." His grip tightens slightly. "I'm watching you become someone else. Someone harder. Someone who gathers intelligence and strategizes battles and prepares for war." His voice breaks on the last word. "This house is changing you into something you were never meant to be."
I stare at him across the candlelight, feeling the ground shift beneath me. All this time, I thought he wanted me to fight. I thought standing up to his mother, refusing to break, becoming steel instead of glass—I thought that was what he needed from me.
But he's looking at me like he's losing someone he loves.
"You want me to stay soft," I say slowly. "To remain the woman who smiled through pain and apologized for existing."
"That's not what I said."
"It's what you meant." I pull my hand back slowly, the withdrawal deliberate, creating distance between us that feels larger than the table. "You fell in love with a woman who couldn't protect herself. Who needed you to fight her battles. Who was grateful just to be tolerated."
"Emery—"
"That woman is gone, Landon." My voice comes out soft, but the words carry weight I've never given them before. "She had to be. Because the woman you loved? She couldn't survive here."
He flinches like I've struck him.
"This one can," I continue, holding his gaze across the flickering candlelight. "This version of me—the one who gathers intelligence and prepares for battle and refuses to break—she's what's left after your family tried to destroy me."
"I never wanted—"
"I know." Something in my chest aches with the truth of it. "But wanting isn't enough. Wishes don't protect our daughter. Hope doesn't stop your mother from poisoning the people who help me."
I stand from the table, leaving my dinner half-eaten, leaving him staring at the space where my hand used to be.
"I'm going to that gala," I tell him. "I'm going to sit where they've placed me, and I'm going to watch Marian speak. And when it's over, I'm going to still be standing."
He doesn't respond. His eyes remain fixed on the candles, on the shadows dancing across the table, on whatever future he's trying to see through the flame.
"I love you," I say from the doorway. "But I won't apologize for surviving."