Emery’s POV
The event coordinator arrives exactly on time, her smile bright and professional as she spreads glossy presentation folders across the sitting room table.
"I think you're going to love what we've put together," she says, arranging papers with practiced efficiency. "Mrs. Remington, you had such wonderful ideas. We've really brought them to life."
I settle into the chair beside her, genuinely eager. The first meeting went well—intimate, personal, exactly what I envisioned for Elsie's first birthday. A small gathering in the garden. Close friends. Maybe twenty people maximum. Games for the children, a simple cake my daughter could actually touch and taste without a dozen cameras documenting every crumb.
Memories. Not a performance.
"Let me show you the updated proposals," the coordinator says, sliding the first folder toward me.
I flip it open. My stomach drops.
The guest list alone spans three pages. I scan names I don't recognize, families I've never met, society figures whose faces I've only seen in tabloids. Five hundred people. Five hundred.
"There must be some mistake," I say quietly, my fingers gripping the edge of the paper.
"Oh no, everything's been confirmed." She flips to the next section with cheerful oblivion. "We've added ice sculptures—three of them, actually. One shaped like a swan, one like a rose garden, and one custom piece featuring the Remington crest. They'll be positioned around the main terrace to create visual interest for the photographers."
"Photographers?"
"Yes! Three major publications confirmed this morning. Vogue, Town & Country, and Architectural Digest. Can you imagine?" Her enthusiasm is genuine, infectious. She has no idea she's describing my nightmare. "And the orchestra—we secured the symphony's chamber ensemble. They'll play throughout the afternoon and evening."
My hands start trembling. I press them flat against the table to hide it.
"When did all this happen?"
"Mrs. Remington Senior called this morning." The coordinator's smile doesn't waver. "She was very specific about the revisions. She said they reflected the family's true wishes and that we should implement them immediately."
Of course. Of course she did.
Every decision I made—erased. Every choice I carefully crafted—overruled before the ink dried on the contracts. My daughter's first birthday, hijacked and transformed into another Remington spectacle designed to remind me exactly where I stand in this family's hierarchy.
"I see." My voice comes out steady despite the rage building behind my ribs. "Thank you for bringing these by."
The coordinator blinks, confused by the sudden shift. "Did you want to discuss any of the details? The floral arrangements alone took hours to—"
"I appreciate your work." I stand, forcing myself to move with calm deliberation. "But I need to speak with my husband before we proceed."
"Of course. Should I follow up tomorrow?"
"I'll be in touch."
She gathers her folders with practiced efficiency, clearly sensing the dismissal. The moment the door closes behind her, my composure shatters.
My hands shake so violently I have to clench them into fists. Fury burns through my chest like acid. I want to scream. I want to break something. I want to storm into Portia's wing and tell her exactly what I think of her interference.
Instead, I walk.
Down the corridor. Through the main hall. Toward Landon's study with purpose thrumming through my veins.
I don't knock. I push through the door and find him at his desk, bent over documents that suddenly seem utterly insignificant compared to the war his mother just declared.
He looks up, startled. "Em? What—"
"Your mother hijacked our daughter's birthday party."
The words come out flat. Controlled. But he hears everything beneath them.
He sets down his pen immediately. "What happened?"
I cross to his desk and brace my hands against the edge. "The event coordinator just left. Everything I planned—every single detail we discussed—it's gone. Replaced."
"Replaced with what?"
"Five hundred guests. Ice sculptures. A live orchestra. Photographers from three major publications." My voice sharpens with each item. "Your mother called this morning and provided 'revisions.' Told the coordinator they reflected the family's true wishes."
His expression darkens. The muscle in his jaw tightens, that tell I've learned means he's furious but trying to contain it.
"She had no right—"
"She had every right." I straighten, forcing myself to breathe. "This is her house. Her name. Her empire. And she will never stop reminding me that I'm just a guest here."
"You're not a guest. You're my wife."
"Then act like it."
The words land harder than I intended. He flinches, and something in me immediately regrets the blow. But I don't take it back.
He rises from his chair and rounds the desk, stopping close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. "What do you want, Em? Tell me what you truly want."
The question cracks something open inside me.
"I want a garden party." My voice breaks slightly. "Just the garden. Close friends only—people we actually trust, not society figures performing for cameras. I want games and contests for the children. Simple things. Fun things. A small cake that Elsie can touch and taste and smash with her tiny hands without worrying about magazine spreads or perfect photographs."
"Okay."
"I want memories, Landon. Real memories. Not another staged performance designed to prove something to people who will never accept me anyway."
"Okay," he says again, and this time his hands find mine. "We'll do exactly that."
I search his face for hesitation. For the moment he'll backtrack, explain why it's complicated, why we need to compromise. But all I see is determination.
"Together," he adds, his grip tightening. "We'll plan it ourselves. And my mother will not overrule us again."
"She'll try."
"Let her try." His voice carries an edge I rarely hear—the sound of a man who's finally chosen his side. "This is our daughter. Our family. Our decision."
Something in my chest loosens. Not relief, exactly. More like the first breath after being underwater too long.
"Thank you," I whisper.
He pulls me into his arms, and I let myself sink into him for just a moment. Let myself believe that maybe—finally—we're fighting the same war.
That night, after Elsie falls asleep, we sit on the nursery floor with notebooks and markers spread between us like battle plans.
"What about a three-legged race?" Landon suggests, tapping his pen against his chin. "I was terrible at those as a kid, but they're hilarious to watch."
"Perfect." I write it down, my handwriting messy with excitement. "And maybe face painting? Something simple—butterflies, rainbows, nothing complicated."
"Reagan's kids would love that." He leans closer, reading over my shoulder. "What about prizes?"
"Stuffed animals? Books?" I glance at him. "Nothing expensive. Nothing that screams 'Remington excess.'"
"Agreed." He grins, and for the first time in weeks, it reaches his eyes. "What about the cake?"
"Vanilla," I say immediately. "With buttercream frosting. Nothing fancy. Something she can actually taste without choking on fondant."
"Strawberry filling?"
"You think she'll like that?"
"I think she'll wear more of it than she eats, but yes." He laughs, the sound warm and genuine. "We should probably have a backup outfit ready."
"Three backup outfits," I correct, and we both dissolve into laughter that feels like medicine.
We sit there for hours, brainstorming ridiculous game ideas and debating whether lemon or chocolate frosting is superior for smash cakes. The world outside these walls—the headlines, the enemies, the empire trying to break us—none of it exists.
Just us. Planning our daughter's first birthday like normal parents.
When Landon finally catches my hand and brings it to his lips, I feel something I haven't felt in months. Hope.