Emery’s POV
The ballroom glitters like a jewel box designed to intimidate.
Crystal chandeliers cascade from vaulted ceilings, throwing fractured light across marble floors polished to mirrors. Every surface gleams with intention—the champagne flutes, the silverware, the jewels dripping from throats and wrists. This is wealth performing for itself, and I am walking straight into its center.
I enter on Landon's arm, chin lifted, expression serene. The mask I practiced holds perfectly.
A thousand eyes turn toward us. I feel their weight like physical pressure against my skin—measuring, calculating, deciding in the space of a heartbeat whether I belong here or whether I'm merely tolerated.
I recognize faces from Harmony's briefings. Charles Whitmore, the board member with the fifteen-year grudge, nursing a scotch near the ice sculpture. Harlow Bell, the socialite who trades in gossip, is already whispering behind her champagne flute to a woman whose name I've memorized but whose face I'm seeing for the first time.
Near the bar, positioned with deliberate casualness, stands Gregory Courtland. The journalist. His eyes find mine and hold for just a moment too long before he looks away, feigning disinterest.
He's watching. They're all watching.
"Breathe," Landon murmurs against my ear.
"I am breathing."
"You're not." His hand tightens on mine. "You've been holding your breath since we walked in."
I force air into my lungs, slow and controlled, and paint the serene smile back onto my face.
Portia appears before us like a spider sensing vibration in her web.
"Darlings!" Her voice carries across the entrance, pitched perfectly for the cameras positioned nearby. She embraces Landon first, then turns to me with arms outstretched. "Emery, sweetheart. You look absolutely stunning."
She kisses my cheek, and I smell her perfume—expensive, suffocating, familiar in the worst ways.
"Thank you, Portia." I keep my voice warm. "You've outdone yourself with the decorations."
"Only the best for the Foundation." She pulls back from the embrace, but her grip lingers on my arm. Her fingers press into my flesh—too tight, too long—and her smile doesn't waver as she leans close.
"I hope you remembered to smile for the photographers outside," she murmurs, her breath warm against my ear. "We wouldn't want any unflattering angles making their way into tomorrow's papers."
The warning lands like ice water down my spine.
She releases me before I can respond, already turning to greet another guest with the same theatrical affection. I stand frozen for half a second, processing the threat disguised as maternal concern.
Landon's hand finds the small of my back. "What did she say?"
"Nothing important." I start walking toward our assigned table. "Let's find our seats."
The head table stretches before me like a battlefield. I scan the place cards as we approach, noting the careful arrangement of power—Portia at the center, Lily to her left, various Foundation board members filling the remaining seats.
Then I see it.
A cream-colored card bearing elegant calligraphy. Marian Rinaldi. Positioned directly across from where I'm meant to sit.
My footsteps falter.
"Did you know about this?" The question comes out sharper than I intend.
Landon follows my gaze, and I watch his jaw tighten. "No. She was supposed to be at the speaker's table."
"Well." I pull out my chair with deliberate composure. "Apparently plans changed."
We settle into our seats. The table fills around us—board members murmuring greetings, their wives assessing my dress with barely concealed judgment. Lily arrives in her emerald gown and doesn't acknowledge me at all.
Marian's seat remains empty.
Under the tablecloth, Landon's hand finds my thigh. He squeezes once—reassurance, solidarity, a silent promise that we're in this together. I place my hand over his and squeeze back.
The lights dim.
A hush falls over the ballroom as spotlights converge on the stage. The Foundation's president offers brief remarks, his voice droning through statistics and achievements I barely register.
Then he introduces the evening's featured speaker.
Marian emerges from the wings like she was born for this moment. The golden light bathes her in warmth, catching the shimmer of her white gown, the careful arrangement of her blonde waves. She moves to the podium with the grace of someone who has never doubted her right to be seen.
"Good evening." Her voice carries effortlessly, amplified but intimate. "It is my profound honor to stand before you tonight."
I keep my expression neutral. My spine straight. My hands folded calmly in my lap.
She speaks of legacy. Of bloodlines. Of the sacred duty to preserve what generations have built.
"The Remington Foundation represents more than charity," she continues, her eyes sweeping the crowd. "It represents a commitment to tradition. To values. To ensuring that what has been entrusted to us is protected for future generations."
Her gaze finds mine across the ballroom.
Holds.
"Some women are born to carry tradition forward." Her voice drops into something almost gentle. "They understand, instinctively, what it means to belong to something larger than themselves. To honor the families they marry into. To protect legacies they didn't build but have been trusted to preserve."
The pause stretches.
"And some," she says softly, "are not."
The words hang in the air like smoke.
Scattered applause ripples through the room. I hear it as if from underwater—distant, distorted, unreal.
She's still looking at me. Waiting. Watching for the crack in my composure, the flinch that proves I understood exactly what she just said.
I do not blink.
I do not look away.
I simply smile—warm, genuine, utterly controlled—and bring my hands together in applause. My palms burn with the effort of restraint, but I clap steadily, rhythmically, as if she's just delivered the most inspiring speech I've ever heard.
Landon's hand finds mine under the table again. His grip is tight, his breathing carefully measured.
Marian's smile falters for just a fraction of a second. She expected something else. A reaction. Evidence that her carefully crafted words had found their target.
Instead, I give her nothing.
She recovers smoothly, continuing her speech about charitable initiatives and community impact. But I've stopped listening to the words. I'm watching the way her hands grip the podium just slightly tighter than before. The way her rhythm has shifted, uncertain now, thrown off by my refusal to play the role she'd scripted for me.
You wanted me to crack, I think, still smiling, still clapping at appropriate moments. You wanted me to prove every story you've planted about my instability.
The applause swells as she concludes, and I join it with enthusiasm that borders on theatrical.
I will not give you the satisfaction.