Marian’s POV
The mirror shows me exactly what I want to see.
I stand before the full-length glass in my dressing room, practicing the speech I've memorized word for word. Each phrase has been polished until it shines with false humility—gratitude for the Remington Foundation, commitment to charitable work, subtle emphasis on legacy and tradition and belonging.
"The Foundation has always represented the best of what families like ours can offer the world." I pause, tilting my chin slightly. "It is my honor to continue that tradition."
The words flow like honey. Warm. Inviting. Utterly convincing.
I practice my smile until it looks effortless. The slight upward curve of lips that suggests graciousness without demanding recognition. The soft crinkle around my eyes that makes people believe I actually care about whatever I'm saying.
The smile that will be captured by every camera in that ballroom.
A knock interrupts my rehearsal. I don't turn from the mirror. "Come in."
Portia enters my penthouse like she owns it, which in some ways she does. Everything I have, everything I'm about to become, flows from her approval. She settles onto the velvet settee behind me, her reflection joining mine in the glass.
"You've been practicing," she observes.
"For weeks." I finally turn to face her, smoothing the silk of my robe. "Every word. Every pause. Every expression."
"Show me."
I straighten my spine and deliver the opening of my speech, watching her face for any flicker of criticism. When I finish, she nods slowly, something like satisfaction softening her sharp features.
"Better than I expected." She crosses her legs, the picture of composed elegance. "The part about tradition is particularly effective."
"I thought you'd appreciate that." I settle into the chair across from her. "Subtle emphasis on lineage. On belonging. On who deserves to carry the Remington name."
"And who doesn't need to be said at all."
We sit together like generals before a battle, and that's exactly what this is. The gala isn't a social event—it's a campaign. Every detail has been engineered for maximum impact.
"Walk me through the evening," Portia says. "I want to hear it from your perspective."
I lean back, letting the plan unfold in my mind like a perfectly choreographed dance. "I take the stage at eight-thirty. The lighting has been adjusted to ensure I'm photographed from the most flattering angles."
"Obviously."
"I deliver the speech. Ten minutes of carefully constructed humility, with emphasis on the Foundation's legacy and my commitment to preserving it." I pause, savoring the next part. "Meanwhile, Emery sits at Landon's side. Visible but secondary. Forced to smile and applaud while I command the room."
Portia's lips curve into something that might pass for a smile on someone less calculating. "She'll hate every second."
"That's the point." I rise and cross to the bar, pouring two glasses of champagne. "But the real work happens after the speech. During the reception."
"Tell me."
I hand her a glass and reclaim my seat. "I approach them both. Warm. Gracious. Utterly unthreatening." The champagne is crisp on my tongue. "I congratulate them on the baby. Ask how motherhood is treating her. Comment on how tired she must be with a newborn at home."
"Innocent questions."
"Completely innocent." I take another sip. "But designed to unsettle. To remind everyone watching that she's overwhelmed, out of her depth, struggling to keep up with the demands of the Remington world."
Portia nods approvingly. "And when she responds?"
"It doesn't matter how she responds. If she's cold, she looks defensive. If she's warm, she looks desperate. If she's neutral, she looks hollow." I set down my glass. "Every observer will see exactly what we've been telling them for months. An unstable woman clinging to a name she doesn't deserve."
"The goal is not destruction," Portia reminds me, her voice carrying the weight of experience. "Not yet. The goal is erosion."
"I know."
"We need her to crack publicly." She fixes me with those sharp eyes that miss nothing. "To confirm the narrative of instability. One outburst. One moment of lost control. That's all it takes to transform gossip into established fact."
"She won't crack." I say it with certainty, because I've watched Emery these past months. She's harder than she used to be. More controlled. "Not easily."
"Then we keep applying pressure." Portia finishes her champagne and sets the empty glass aside. "This gala is one battle in a longer war. But it's a crucial one."
I nod, already savoring the moment that hasn't happened yet. The image crystallizes in my mind with perfect clarity—Landon watching me speak, remembering what we had, realizing what he lost when he chose her instead.
"He'll see me up there," I say quietly, almost to myself. "Commanding attention. Representing everything he was raised to value."
"He will."
"And she'll be sitting beside him, silent and secondary, unable to compete with what I'm offering." I meet Portia's eyes. "He'll remember. He has to remember."
"Memories are powerful things." Portia rises, smoothing her jacket with practiced grace. "But they need reinforcement. That's what tomorrow night provides."
She moves toward the door, pausing with her hand on the frame. "Don't overplay your hand, Marian. Subtlety has always been your strongest asset."
"I understand."
"Do you?" Her gaze sharpens. "Because I've seen what happens when women like you let emotion cloud judgment. You're not just fighting for Landon. You're fighting for a position in this family that was promised to you long before she appeared."
"I know exactly what I'm fighting for."
She studies me for a long moment, then nods. "Good. I'll see you tomorrow night."
The door closes behind her, and I'm alone with my reflection again.
I return to the mirror, practicing the smile one more time. The woman who stares back at me is polished, composed, ready for war. Everything about her screams belonging—the carefully styled hair, the flawless posture, the quiet confidence that comes from knowing exactly where you fit in the world.
This is not revenge. I repeat it to myself like a prayer. This is restoration.
Emery forced her way into a life she was never equipped to handle. 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 doing everyone a favor. Landon. The child. Even Emery herself.
I turn from the mirror and cross to the window, watching the city lights glitter below. Tomorrow night, I will stand in that ballroom and show everyone who truly belongs at Landon Remington's side.
By the time the gala ends, there won't be any doubt left.
It was never her. It was always supposed to be me.