Emery’s POV
The tension at the table becomes unbearable.
Every polite exchange carries poison beneath its surface. Victor continues making small talk. But his eyes keep drifting to me, measuring, calculating, waiting for cracks in my composure.
Bruce clears his throat—the third time in as many minutes. His discomfort radiates across the table like heat from an open flame.
"Reagan, darling," he says, pushing back his chair with forced casualness. "Why don't we show Emery those gardens you were admiring earlier? The roses are spectacular this time of year."
Reagan reads her husband's desperation instantly. She rises with graceful efficiency, circling the table to link her arm through mine before I can respond.
"What a wonderful idea," she says warmly. "Emery, you simply must see the heritage rose collection. Some of those bushes are over a hundred years old."
I let her guide me from my seat, grateful for the escape even as my stomach twists at leaving Landon alone with Victor and Marian. His hand brushes mine as I pass—a brief contact that carries a thousand unspoken words.
I'll be fine. Go.
We follow a winding path away from the terrace, Reagan's arm still tucked through mine like we've been friends for years rather than hours. The manicured hedges rise around us, creating a green corridor that muffles the sounds of the club.
Once we're clearly out of earshot, Reagan's pleasant expression shifts into something more serious.
"I've known Victor Rinaldi for twenty years," she says quietly, her pace slowing. "He was at our wedding. He's godfather to our oldest son."
I look at her sharply. "Then why—"
"Because knowing someone and trusting them are very different things." She stops walking entirely, turning to face me. "Victor is charming. Brilliant. And utterly ruthless when he wants something."
The warning settles into my bones like ice water. "What does he want?"
"That's what concerns me." Reagan's grip on my arm tightens briefly. "Victor doesn't make social calls without purpose. His presence here today wasn't coincidence. It was a message."
"A message," I repeat flatly.
"That he's watching. That he has reach. That wherever you go, whatever you do, he can find you." She shakes her head slowly. "I've seen him do this before—appear unexpectedly, make pleasant conversation, leave people wondering what just happened. It's how he establishes dominance without ever raising his voice."
I absorb this, my mind racing through implications I don't want to name. "Why are you telling me this?"
Reagan's expression softens with something that looks remarkably like respect. "Because I liked what I saw today. The woman in those tabloids—the unstable, aggressive foreigner who trapped Landon Remington—she doesn't exist."
"She never did."
"I know that now." Reagan squeezes my arm warmly. "The articles are nonsense. I'll make sure Bruce understands that too. Whatever influence we have, it's yours."
The unexpected alliance catches me off guard. I've spent so long fighting alone, expecting enemies around every corner, that genuine kindness feels almost suspicious.
"Thank you," I manage. "I don't know what to say."
"You don't have to say anything." She pats my hand. "Just keep being exactly who you are. The people who matter will see the truth eventually."
We continue walking through the gardens, but my attention keeps drifting back toward the terrace. I can see glimpses of the table through gaps in the hedges—Landon's dark hair, Victor's silver, the flash of Marian's white dress.
When we round the final curve of the path, the full view opens before me, and my chest tightens.
Landon and Victor sit locked in conversation that looks civil but feels like combat. Their postures are perfect, their expressions controlled, but I can read the tension in Landon's shoulders from fifty feet away.
And Marian hovers nearby like a predator circling wounded prey.
She's positioned herself at Landon's elbow, one manicured hand resting on his arm with possessive familiarity. Her laughter floats across the distance—too loud, too bright, performed for an audience that includes me.
She's laughing at something he didn't say. Touching him like she has the right.
Jealousy flares hot and sharp in my chest, but I refuse to let it show. I keep my expression neutral, my pace steady, my hands loose at my sides instead of clenched into fists.
She wants you to react. Don't give her the satisfaction.
As if sensing my gaze, Landon looks up.
Our eyes meet across the terrace—his dark and intense, mine steady despite the war raging inside me. The connection lasts only a moment, but it carries everything we can't say aloud.
He excuses himself immediately.
I watch him rise from his chair, watch Victor's expression tighten with displeasure, watch Marian's hand fall away from his arm as he steps back from the table. He crosses the terrace with purpose, closing the distance between us in seconds.
"Ready to leave?" he asks quietly, taking my hand in his.
I nod.
We walk back toward the table together, and I feel every eye tracking our progress. Bruce looks relieved. Reagan offers a knowing smile. Victor watches with the cold calculation of a chess master reassessing the board.
Marian's expression is harder to read—something between frustration and determination, like a hunter whose prey just slipped the trap.
As we pass them, I stop.
The movement is deliberate, controlled, exactly the kind of power play I've learned from months of surviving this family.
"Thank you both for the lovely surprise," I say, my voice sweet as honey. "I do hope you enjoy the rest of your afternoon."
My smile is steel wrapped in silk.
Victor's expression flickers—something like respect, perhaps, or reassessment. He didn't expect this. He expected the fragile woman from the tabloids, the one who cracks under pressure and confirms every story they've planted.
Instead, he found someone new.
Marian's smile turns brittle at the edges. Her composure wavers for just a fraction of a second before she recovers, but I've already seen it. The crack in her perfect facade.
I'm not afraid of you anymore.
Landon guides me toward the parking lot, his hand warm and solid against the small of my back. We don't speak until we're safely inside the car, doors closed, the country club shrinking in the rearview mirror.
Then he exhales—long, slow, releasing tension I didn't realize he'd been holding.
"That was a declaration of war," he says grimly, both hands gripping the steering wheel.
I turn to look out the window, watching the manicured landscape give way to the open road. The afternoon sun catches the trees, painting everything in gold and green, beautiful and peaceful and completely at odds with the battle we just survived.
"War was declared long ago," I reply quietly. "We're just finally fighting back."