Emery’s POV
My cheeks are still flushed despite my best efforts to cool them, and Landon's tie sits slightly crooked no matter how many times I straighten it. But we walk with our heads high, our fingers loosely intertwined, every inch the picture of a couple who definitely did not just have desperate sex against a stone wall.
Bruce Walsh spots us immediately, waving from a shaded table overlooking the golf course. His silver hair catches the afternoon light as he rises halfway from his seat in greeting.
"There you are," he calls warmly. "We were beginning to think you'd gotten lost in the gardens."
"The grounds are beautiful," Landon says smoothly, pulling out my chair. "We couldn't resist exploring."
I settle into my seat and find Reagan Walsh's eyes already on me.
She's studying me with open curiosity—not hostile, but assessing. The kind of look a woman gives another woman when she's trying to reconcile headlines with reality.
"Emery," she says, her voice warm but deliberate. "I've been dying to ask you about little Elsie. How old is she now?"
"Almost one year." The mention of my daughter softens something in my chest. "Trying to run before she can even walk properly."
"Stubborn already," Reagan laughs. "She gets that from her father's side, I'm sure."
"More likely from mine." I smile despite myself. "My grandmother used to say I came into this world demanding things."
Reagan's eyebrows lift with interest. "And motherhood? How are you adjusting?"
The question is warm but pointed. I recognize it for what it is—a test. The tabloids painted me as unstable and aggressive, the kind of woman who causes scenes at charity galas and attacks philanthropists over dinner. Reagan wants to see for herself whether any of it is true.
I could perform. I could recite the polished answers I've rehearsed for exactly these situations—how blessed I feel, how natural it all seems, how the Remington family has been nothing but supportive.
Instead, I choose honesty.
"It's the hardest thing I've ever done," I admit. "And the best. Sometimes simultaneously."
Reagan's expression flickers with surprise.
"Elsie has this laugh," I continued, warming to the subject despite myself. "This ridiculous, full-body laugh that she does when you blow raspberries on her stomach. It's the most undignified sound I've ever heard, and it's my favorite thing in the world."
"Oh, I remember that age," Reagan says, leaning forward. "Bruce used to walk around the house making animal sounds for hours just to hear our son giggle."
Bruce clears his throat, clearly embarrassed. "I don't recall that."
"You absolutely do." Reagan waves her hand dismissively and turns back to me. "What about the public eye? That must be an adjustment, especially with everything that's been in the papers lately."
There it is. The real question hiding beneath the pleasant ones.
I take a breath and meet her gaze directly. "I'd be lying if I said it wasn't difficult. Loving a man whose family comes with complications has its challenges." I pause, choosing my words carefully. "But I've learned that the people who matter see past the headlines. And the ones who don't... well, they were never going to give me a fair chance anyway."
Reagan's expression softens into something genuine. She reaches across the table and touches my arm—a gesture so unexpected that I nearly flinch.
"You're not what I expected," she says quietly. "Based on what I'd read, I thought..."
"That I'd be foaming at the mouth and throwing silverware?"
She laughs—a real laugh, warm and unguarded. "Something like that."
"Emery has that effect on people," Landon says beside me, and I hear the pride in his voice. "The woman in those articles doesn't exist. Never did."
Bruce watches the exchange with visible relief. I understand suddenly that this lunch was always an audition—his investment depends on stability, on confidence that the Remington family isn't imploding from within. The woman before him is nothing like the headlines suggested, and I can practically see the tension leaving his shoulders.
"Tell me more about this laugh," Reagan says, settling back in her chair. "Does she do it every time?"
By the time dessert arrives, Reagan is laughing at my stories about Elsie's discovery of solid food—the disaster with sweet potatoes, the ongoing war against peas—and touching my arm like we're old friends rather than strangers meeting across carefully polished silverware.
I'm mid-sentence, describing how Landon handled his first diaper blowout with the composure of a man defusing a bomb, when a murmur ripples through the terrace.
The sound isn't loud, but it carries the particular frequency of an interrupted routine. Heads turn toward the club entrance. Conversations pause mid-breath.
I follow the collective gaze and feel the blood drain from my face.
A sleek black car has pulled up to the entrance—the kind of car that announces its own importance. The driver hurries around to open the passenger door, and Marian steps out first.
She's dressed in white.
The symbolism isn't lost on me. She looks like a bride, pristine and purposeful, her blonde hair catching the sunlight like a halo. Behind her emerges a tall man with steel-gray hair and eyes that match—cold, calculating, familiar in a way that makes my stomach turn.
Victor Rinaldi. Marian's father.
I've seen photographs of him in business publications, always positioned as a titan of industry, a man whose handshake can make or break fortunes. In person, he radiates something more dangerous—the quiet confidence of someone who has never heard the word no.
Beside me, Landon stiffens.
His hand finds mine under the table, squeezing once in warning. His jaw has gone tight, the easy warmth of moments ago replaced by something guarded and alert.
"Did you know they were coming?" I whisper.
"No." His voice is clipped, controlled. "This is a surprise."
Marian's eyes sweep the terrace until they find our table. Her lips curve into a smile that carries no warmth whatsoever—all performance, all intention.
Victor's gaze lands on Landon with the weight of a challenge issued.
They're walking directly toward us.