Marian’s POV
The estate corridors stretch before me like a maze I've memorized by heart.
I move through them with purpose disguised as wandering, my heels clicking softly against the marble, my pace unhurried. If anyone asks, I'm simply exploring. Reacquainting myself with a house I've known since childhood.
Portia mentioned at breakfast that Emery would be occupied with the event coordinator for at least an hour. Something about Elsie's first birthday party—plans that keep getting revised, decisions that keep getting unmade.
An hour is plenty of time.
I tell myself I simply want to see the child. To understand what hold this baby has over Landon. What spell she's cast that makes him look at her with such naked devotion, such complete surrender.
But deeper down, something darker drives me forward.
If I can hold Elsie—if I can show everyone how natural I look with a Remington child in my arms—perhaps the image will plant itself in minds that matter. Perhaps Landon will see what could have been. What should have been.
The nursery is exactly where I remember it. Third door on the left, past the family portraits, tucked into the quietest corner of the residential wing. I pause at the threshold, composing my expression into something soft and maternal. Something camera-ready.
The door is slightly ajar. I reach for the handle.
But before I can push it open, a figure emerges from inside—that girl. Harmony. The nanny Landon hired without consulting anyone. She's young, sharp-eyed, with Elsie balanced on her hip like she belongs there.
For a moment, we simply stare at each other.
Then I arrange my features into my warmest smile and step forward, arms extended.
"Oh, what a precious angel," I coo, my voice dripping with practiced sweetness. "Look at those beautiful eyes. She has Landon's coloring exactly, doesn't she? That same dark hair, those same perfect features."
Harmony shifts her weight, angling Elsie slightly away from my reaching hands. The movement is subtle but unmistakable.
"Ms. Rinaldi." Her voice is polite, professional. "I wasn't expecting you."
"I just wanted to say hello." I keep my smile fixed, my tone light. "It's been so long since I've had a proper moment with her. May I?"
I reach for the baby again.
Harmony steps back.
The refusal is quiet but immovable—a wall disguised as courtesy. Something hot flares in my chest, climbing toward my cheeks.
"I'm sorry," she says, not sounding sorry at all. "Mrs. Remington left specific instructions. No one enters the nursery without her permission."
"Mrs. Remington." I let the name hang in the air, weighted with implication. "You mean Emery."
"Yes, ma'am."
"And you think those instructions apply to me?" I feel heat rising in my face, coloring my composure. "I'm practically family. I've known the Remingtons longer than she has."
"I understand." Harmony's expression doesn't waver. "But my instructions were clear."
"Your instructions." The words taste bitter on my tongue. "You're the hired help. You don't get to decide who holds this child."
"I'm not deciding anything." Her voice remains maddeningly calm. "I'm following Mrs. Remington's wishes regarding her daughter."
"Her daughter?" Something ugly twists in my chest. "This is a Remington child. She belongs to this family. To this house."
"She belongs to her mother."
The audacity of it steals my breath. A servant—a glorified babysitter—standing between me and what should be mine. Denying me access to the child who could have been mine, who should have been mine, if Emery hadn't stolen everything I'd spent years building toward.
"Listen to me carefully." I take another step forward, dropping my voice to something sharp and dangerous. "I don't know what Emery has told you about me, but I am not some stranger off the street. I have every right to be here."
"I'm sure you do." Harmony doesn't retreat this time, but her arms tighten around Elsie. "But those rights don't extend to this nursery. Not without Mrs. Remington's explicit approval."
"This is ridiculous—"
"Is there a problem?"
The voice cuts through our standoff like a blade. I turn to find Portia emerging from a room down the corridor, Lily close behind. Both of them wear expressions of carefully manufactured concern.
Perfect timing. As if they'd been waiting just out of sight.
I shift seamlessly into wounded innocence, letting my shoulders drop, allowing genuine hurt to bleed into my expression. It's not entirely performance—the rejection stings more than I want to admit.
"I was simply trying to see Elsie," I explain, my voice catching slightly. "To spend a moment with her. And I've been treated like—" I pause, pressing a hand to my chest. "Like a threat. Like I'm dangerous to this child."
Portia's expression sharpens as she approaches. "Harmony, what's going on here?"
"I was following Mrs. Remington's instructions," Harmony replies steadily. "No visitors to the nursery without her permission."
"Mrs. Remington's instructions," Lily repeats, her tone dripping with condescension. "Since when does the staff take orders from her over family?"
"Since Mr. Remington made it clear that his wife's wishes regarding their daughter are to be respected." Harmony's gaze doesn't waver. "By everyone."
"This is absurd," I say, letting frustration crack my voice. "I didn't come here to cause problems. I simply wanted to hold her. To connect with her." I look at Portia imploringly. "I grew up in this house. I've known Landon my entire life. And now I'm being treated like I might harm his child?"
Portia's mouth thins into a disapproving line. "Harmony, surely an exception can be made. Marian is practically—"
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Remington." Harmony cuts her off with a respect that somehow carries more authority than deference. "But my instructions come from both Mr. and Mrs. Remington. I can't override them."
"You can't or you won't?"
"Both."
The word lands like a slap. Lily makes a sound of outrage. Portia's expression hardens into something I recognize—the look she wears when plans have gone unexpectedly sideways.
And then Elsie begins to cry.
The sound pierces the corridor, high and distressed, responding to the tension radiating from the adults around her. Her tiny face crumples, tears streaming, her small body stiffening against Harmony's shoulder.
Harmony immediately shifts her attention to the baby, murmuring soothing sounds, turning away from us to focus entirely on calming the child. The dismissal is complete. We've ceased to exist.
"Now look what you've done," Lily snaps at the nanny's back.
I stand in the corridor, watching the chaos unfold with satisfaction curling beneath my wounded performance. The crying. The accusation. The nanny who answers to Emery rather than the family. The household in disarray over a simple request.
Let them see this. Let them see how unstable this household has become under Emery's influence.
A nanny who defies family members. A child who cries at the mere presence of guests. Rules and restrictions where there should be warmth and welcome.
This is what Emery has created. This is the chaos she's introduced into a family that functioned perfectly well before she arrived.
And when Landon hears about this—when he learns that his precious wife's instructions have resulted in his family being treated like intruders in their own home—perhaps he'll finally see what I've been trying to show him all along.