Landon’s POV
The woman across the breakfast table is not my wife.
She wears Emery's face, moves with Emery's hands, but something essential has been replaced. I watch her scroll through her phone with cold efficiency, her thumb swiping in measured strokes, cataloging articles, saving screenshots, building an arsenal against enemies I cannot see.
Elsie babbles in her high chair between us, reaching toward her mother with sticky fingers and expectant eyes. Emery glances up, offers a smile that doesn't reach her eyes, presses a distracted kiss to our daughter's soft hair.
Then she returns to her phone.
"Mama," Elsie tries again, waving a piece of banana.
"That's right, baby." Emery's voice is distant, automatic. "Good job."
Something cracks in my chest.
I set down my coffee and study my wife—really study her. The tension in her jaw. The way her shoulders curve inward, protective, bracing for impact. The mechanical quality of her responses to our daughter, as if motherhood has become another task on an endless list of battles to survive.
This is what they've done to her. This is what I've let them do.
By noon, I've made my decision.
I cancel the board meeting. The investor calls can wait. The quarterly projections that have been consuming my every waking hour suddenly seem meaningless compared to the woman disappearing in front of me.
I find her in the study, still buried in her phone, a notebook open beside her filled with dates and names and connections I don't want to understand.
"Emery."
She doesn't look up. "Did you see the piece from The Herald? They're quoting a 'longtime family friend' now. I need to figure out who—"
I cross the room and take the phone gently from her hands.
Her head snaps up, confusion flickering across her features. "What are you doing?"
"We're leaving."
"Leaving where?" She reaches for the phone, but I slip it into my pocket. "Landon, I have work to do. The narrative they're building—"
"Can wait."
"It can't wait." Her voice sharpens with frustration. "Every hour I don't counter their story is another hour it solidifies. Don't you understand what's at stake?"
"I understand perfectly." I crouch beside her chair, taking her hands in mine. They're cold despite the warmth of the room. "I also understand that our daughter has been trying to get her mother's attention all morning, and you barely noticed."
She flinches like I've struck her.
"That's not fair," she whispers.
"Maybe not. But it's true." I squeeze her fingers gently. "Elsie needs her mother today. The real one. Not the woman who's been replaced by someone I barely recognize."
The words land harder than I intended. I see them hit—the way her eyes widen, the hurt that flickers beneath her armor before she can suppress it. For a moment, I think she'll argue. Tell me I don't understand. Push back against what I'm asking.
Instead, she looks down at our joined hands and says nothing.
"Please," I add quietly. "Just for today. Let me remind you what we're fighting for."
She meets my eyes. Whatever she sees there makes her nod slowly, reluctantly, like she's agreeing against her better judgment.
"Okay," she says. "Where are we going?"
I drive for nearly an hour, watching the estate shrink in the rearview mirror, then the suburbs, then the city itself. The further we travel, the more the tension in Emery's shoulders seems to ease—incrementally, like ice melting under weak sunlight.
The park I've chosen is quiet, secluded, surrounded by old trees and rolling hills that block any view of the road. No cameras. No gossip networks. No one who knows the Remington name or cares about the stories being written about us.
I spread the blanket beneath an ancient oak while Emery lifts Elsie from her car seat. Our daughter squirms with excitement, her eyes wide as she takes in the open sky and waving leaves.
"Down," Elsie demands, pointing at the grass. "Down, down!"
Emery lowers her carefully, and we watch as our daughter discovers a world beyond marble floors and manicured gardens. Elsie's tiny fingers clutch at green blades with wonder. She pulls experimentally, giggles when the grass comes free, then tries again.
"She's never done this before," Emery realizes. Her voice carries something fragile, surprised. "We've never taken her somewhere she could just... play in the dirt."
"I know." I settle onto the blanket and reach for her hand. "I should have thought of it sooner."
We sit in comfortable silence, watching Elsie explore. She finds a dandelion and presents it to her mother like a treasure. She discovers an ant and follows its path with intense concentration. She falls onto her bottom three times and laughs each time, utterly delighted by her own clumsiness.
Then a butterfly passes overhead, brilliant blue against the green leaves, and Elsie shrieks with pure joy.
Emery laughs.
The sound stops my heart.
It's genuine—bright and surprised and completely unguarded. No calculation behind it. No armor. Just my wife, delighted by our daughter's delight, present in this moment instead of fighting battles that haven't happened yet.
I memorize the sound. I haven't heard it in weeks.
"Come here," I murmur, pulling her against my side.
She leans into me, her head finding my shoulder, her body warm against mine. We watch Elsie attempt to catch the butterfly with clumsy hands, failing spectacularly, not caring at all.
"This is what we're fighting for," I whisper against her hair. "Not the company. Not the name. This."
She doesn't respond. Her body stays pressed against mine, but I feel the tension returning—slowly, like clouds gathering on a clear horizon. She's here, but not entirely. Part of her is already back at the estate, scrolling through articles, cataloging threats, preparing for the next attack.
"I know you're scared," I continue. "I know they've given you every reason to build walls. But somewhere underneath all that armor, the woman I fell in love with is still there. I saw her just now, when Elsie laughed."
Her fingers tighten on my shirt.
"She can't survive here," Emery says quietly. "You know that."
"Maybe she can. If she doesn't have to fight alone."
The silence stretches between us. Elsie has moved on from the butterfly, now fascinated by a stick she's discovered near the edge of our blanket. The afternoon light filters through the oak leaves, dappling everything in gold.
This moment is perfect. And temporary. We both know it.
Tomorrow, the headlines will still exist. The gossip networks will still be tracking our movements. Portia and Marian will still be circling, waiting for the next opportunity to strike.
But right now, in this quiet park where no one knows our names, we're just a family. A mother and father watching their daughter discover the world. Two people who love each other, holding on despite everything trying to tear them apart.
Emery turns her face into my shoulder.
"Thank you," she whispers. "For today."
I kiss the top of her head and hold her closer, trying to ignore the weight of everything waiting for us beyond these trees.
"Always," I tell her. "Whatever happens. Always."