Landon’s POV
I do not sleep.
The bedroom is dark, still, the only sound I hear is Emery's quiet breathing beside me. She lies inches away, close enough to touch, yet the distance between us feels vast. Unmeasurable. Something that grows wider with every hour I spend watching her.
In the dim light filtering through the curtains, I study her face. The slope of her cheekbones. The gentle curve of her lips. The way her lashes rest against her skin like dark crescents.
She is still beautiful. Still the woman I love with every fractured piece of my heart.
But something has changed.
The softness that once defined her—that openness, that willingness to see the best in people even when they didn't deserve it—has been sharpened into something vigilant. Controlled. Even in sleep, her jaw holds tension. Her hands curl into loose fists against the pillow.
I remember the woman she used to be. The one who moved through life without armor, who gave freely, who believed tenderness was enough to protect her. I remember the way she smiled at me on our wedding night, full of trust I hadn't earned.
I know exactly when that belief died.
And whose hands were on the blade.
My mother's. Lily's. Mine, through my silence and my cowardice.
We killed the woman I fell in love with. And I'm not sure I can live with what's grown in her place.
By morning, I find her in the living room.
She's on the floor with Harmony and Elsie, soft blocks scattered across the carpet between them. Elsie shrieks with delight as she knocks over a tower they've built, and Emery laughs—the sound soft, genuine, but somehow different than I remember.
I lean against the doorframe and watch. Her attention is fully on our daughter, her smile real but focused, as if joy itself requires discipline now. As if she's rationing happiness the way soldiers ration water in the desert.
Something in my chest aches.
This is what I've been grieving, I realize. Not her strength—I've always known she was stronger than anyone gave her credit for. It's how little space she leaves for herself inside that strength. How completely she's armored herself against a world that taught her vulnerability was weakness.
"Harmony," I say, stepping into the room. Both women look up. "I have plans for Emery today. Can you watch Elsie?"
Harmony's expression flickers with understanding. She nods, already reaching for the baby. "Of course."
Emery's brow furrows as she rises from the floor. "Plans? What plans? I wanted to review the—"
"Cancel it."
"Landon." Her voice carries a warning. "I don't have time for—"
"This isn't about escaping responsibility." I cross to her, taking her hands in mine. They're cold despite the warm room. "This is about remembering that you're more than a mother. More than a fighter."
"I don't understand."
"I want you to be cared for." I squeeze her fingers gently. "Not because you're breaking. Not because I think you can't handle what's coming. But because you've been holding everything together alone, and someone should hold you for once."
Something flickers in her eyes—surprise, maybe, or confusion. "Where are we going?"
"The spa I told you about. The one outside the city." I brush a strand of hair from her face. "No staff reporting to my mother. No gossip networks. Just you and a day of peace."
She hesitates, and I watch the calculation happening behind her eyes. The weighing of risks, the assessment of vulnerabilities. Even this—even accepting a gift—has become a strategic decision.
"Okay," she says finally. "Let me change."
The drive is quiet, but the silence carries weight.
I keep my eyes on the road, my hands steady on the wheel, while Emery sits in the passenger seat with her gaze fixed on the passing landscape. The estate disappears behind us, replaced by rolling hills and open sky, and I feel some of the tension ease from my shoulders.
"You don't have to harden yourself to survive this," I say finally. "What's coming at the gala, whatever they're planning—you don't have to become someone else to get through it."
"Landon—"
"Let me finish." I glance at her briefly before returning my attention to the road. "I will stand between you and my family. I will take the blows. That's my job. That's what I should have been doing all along."
She's quiet for a long moment. When I look at her again, her expression has softened with something like gratitude. My heart lifts.
But then she speaks, and I feel it crash back down.
"I love that you want to protect me." Her voice is calm, gentle even. No anger, no accusation. Just the truth. "I love that you're trying to fight for us."
"But?"
"But I've already learned the cost of being gentle in a world that mistakes it for weakness." She turns to face me fully, and I see the steel beneath her soft expression. "Your mother didn't destroy me because I was weak. She destroyed me because I trusted that kindness would be met with kindness. That if I was good enough, patient enough, soft enough, eventually she would accept me."
"That's not—"
"It is." She reaches over and places her hand on my arm. "I'm not angry, Landon. I'm not blaming you. But I can't go back to being the woman who smiled while they cut her to pieces. I can't pretend that didn't happen."
I pull the car to the side of the road and put it in park. My hands are shaking, and I need to look at her properly for this.
"I'm not asking you to pretend," I say carefully. "I'm asking you to let me help carry the weight."
"You do help." Her thumb strokes across my wrist. "More than you know. But the woman you fell in love with—the one who believed tenderness was enough—she couldn't survive here. This one can."
"I know."
"Do you?" Her eyes search mine. "Because sometimes I think you look at me and mourn her. The soft one. The sweet one. The one who needed you to save her."
The words hit me like a physical blow. Because she's right. God help me, she's right.
"I don't want you to need saving," I manage. "I just want you to be happy."
"I am happy." She smiles, and it's genuine, even if it's tinged with something I can't quite name. "I have Elsie. I have you. I have a life worth fighting for. But I will not give up the woman I've become to make anyone else more comfortable."
I stare at her across the console—this woman who was once soft as morning light, now forged into something stronger. Something that scares me and amazes me in equal measure.
"Not even for me?" I ask quietly.
She leans across and kisses me softly. "Not even for you." Her lips brush my cheek as she pulls back. "Now take me to this spa. I could use a day of peace before the war starts."
I put the car back in drive and pulled onto the road.
She's right. I know she's right.
But part of me still mourns the woman I helped destroy—even as I learn to love the warrior who rose from her ashes.