Emery’s POV
The joy does not last.
Two days. That is all we get—two days of planning and laughter and feeling like actual partners before the hammer falls.
A staff member appears in our doorway while we're reviewing catering options, her expression carefully neutral. "Mrs. Remington Senior requests your presence in the drawing room, Mr. Landon. Immediately."
Landon's jaw tightens. He sets down his pen with exaggerated calm. "Thank you. Tell her I'll be there shortly."
The moment she leaves, I stand. "I'm coming with you."
"Emery—"
"Don't." I hold up my hand. "This is about our daughter's party. Our plans. I'm not sitting here while she lectures you alone."
He searches my face for a long moment, then nods. "Together, then."
We walk through the estate side by side, our footsteps echoing against marble floors. The distance between our wing and the main house has never felt longer. By the time we reach the drawing room, my pulse is pounding behind my ribs.
Portia sits in her usual chair, posture immaculate, a folder resting in her lap. She does not rise when we enter.
"Sit," she says, gesturing to the settee across from her. Not an invitation. A command.
Landon's hand finds the small of my back as we take our seats. The warmth steadies me.
"I've learned some disturbing news," Portia begins, her voice deceptively pleasant. "Apparently, significant changes have been made to Elsie's birthday celebration without consulting the family."
"We are the family," Landon replies evenly. "Emery and I made decisions about our daughter's party."
"Your daughter is a Remington heir." Portia's eyes harden. "Her first birthday is not a private matter. It is a public statement."
I feel my nails digging into my palms. "She's a one-year-old. She doesn't care about public statements."
"But I do." Portia turns her gaze on me, cool and assessing. "And so should you, if you understood anything about the position you married into."
"Mother—" Landon starts.
"You've canceled invitations to four hundred families." She cuts him off, her tone sharpening. "Families who have supported the Remington name for generations. Families whose goodwill we depend upon for business relationships, political connections, social standing. Do you have any idea what kind of message this sends?"
"That we wanted something intimate for our child?" I keep my voice steady despite the anger building in my chest.
"That you're making enemies." Portia opens the folder in her lap and produces several sheets of paper. "I've spent the morning attempting to mitigate the damage. This is a revised guest list—trimmed to two hundred. A reasonable compromise."
Landon reaches for the papers. "We didn't ask for a compromise."
"No, you asked for a disaster." Portia's smile doesn't reach her eyes. "I'm preventing one."
I take the list from Landon's hands, scanning the names. Politicians. Society matriarchs. Business partners. People who will turn my daughter's birthday into a networking event, her cake into a photo opportunity, her first year of life into another chapter of Remington mythology.
Then I see it.
The name sits near the top of the second page, printed in the same neat font as all the others. Marian Rinaldi.
Everything inside me goes still.
"Is this a joke?" My voice comes out quiet. Dangerously quiet.
Portia's expression does not waver. "I'm sorry?"
"Marian Rinaldi." I hold up the paper, my hand trembling with controlled fury. "You put her on the guest list for my daughter's first birthday."
"The Rinaldi family has been connected to the Remingtons for generations. Excluding her would be noticed."
"I don't care if it's noticed." The words scrape out of my throat. "That woman tried to destroy my marriage. She planted stories in the press. She—"
"Alleged," Portia interrupts smoothly. "You have allegations. What I have are decades of family history and a social network that requires careful maintenance."
Landon's hand closes over mine, pulling the paper away before I can crush it. "Mother, you cannot seriously expect us to invite Marian to our daughter's party."
"I expect you to understand the consequences of not inviting her." Portia folds her hands in her lap. "The Rinaldis are influential. A perceived slight will not go unnoticed or unforgiven. Do you want to add them to the growing list of enemies this family is accumulating?"
"Yes," I say flatly. "I absolutely want that."
"Emery." Landon's voice carries a warning.
"No." I stand, unable to remain seated any longer. "I won't do this. I won't smile and serve cake to the woman who tried to take everything from me while pretending we're all one big happy family."
Portia watches me pace, something almost like amusement flickering in her eyes. "Such passion. I wonder sometimes if you truly understand what you married into."
"I understand perfectly." I turn to face her. "I understand that everything in this family is a performance. That relationships are transactions. That even a baby's birthday is an opportunity for manipulation."
"Then you understand why this matters."
"What I understand is that you will never stop." My voice breaks slightly, and I hate myself for it. "No matter what I do, no matter how many battles I win, you will always find another way to remind me that I don't belong here."
Silence falls over the room. Landon rises and moves to stand beside me, his presence solid and warm.
"Mother," he says quietly, "the answer is no."
Portia's composure flickers—just for a moment. "Landon—"
"No revised list. No two hundred guests. No Marian Rinaldi." His voice carries an authority I rarely hear. "This is Elsie's birthday. Emery and I will plan it. And you will not interfere again."
Something shifts in Portia's expression. Not defeat—she's too controlled for that. But something colder. Something patient.
"Very well." She rises gracefully. "I've said my piece. The consequences of your choices are your own to bear."
She walks past us without another word, leaving the folder and its offensive guest list behind.
We stand in the empty room, Landon's hand still wrapped around mine, and try to feel like we've won something.
But the look in Portia's eyes stays with me. The certainty that this isn't over.
It's never over.