Emery’s POV
The days leading up to the party become unexpectedly precious.
Our sitting room transforms into a craft station that would horrify Portia if she saw it. Paper garlands sprawl across every surface. Paint pots line the coffee table. Glitter—Landon's idea, which I'm already regretting—coats the floor like snow.
"Hold still." I lean closer to the wooden letter in my hands, carefully painting a swirl of pink along the curve of the E. "You're shaking the table."
"I'm cutting." Landon holds up his scissors defensively, a strip of yellow paper dangling from the blade. "This is precision work."
"That's supposed to be a star."
He examines his creation. "It's an abstract star."
"It has seven points."
"Stars can have seven points."
"Landon." I set down my paintbrush and take the mangled paper from his hands. "Why don't you work on the prizes instead?"
His face lights up with relief. "Thank God. I'm terrible at this."
"I noticed."
He abandons the scissors and crosses to the box of stuffed animals we picked up from the toy store earlier. He pulls out a floppy-eared rabbit and holds it up, making it dance on the edge of the couch.
"Hello, I'm Mr. Whiskers," he says in a ridiculous high-pitched voice. "I'm looking for a new home. Do you think the Henderson twins will love me?"
I try to keep painting. I really do. But when he grabs a spotted giraffe and makes it bow formally to the rabbit, something in my chest loosens.
"A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Whiskers. I'm Gerald the Giraffe. I specialize in being impossibly tall and slightly awkward at parties."
The laugh escapes before I can stop it.
"And this—" He pulls out a plush elephant with a crooked trunk. "This is Professor Peanut. He has three PhDs and very strong opinions about playground equipment."
I'm crying now. Actually crying with laughter while he orchestrates an entire conversation between the stuffed animals, complete with dramatic pauses and theatrical gasps. Paint drips onto my jeans and I don't care.
"You're ridiculous," I manage between breaths.
He grins at me over Professor Peanut's fuzzy head. "You love it."
I do. I love all of it.
Harmony joins us some evenings, her steady hands rescuing my crooked stitches on the banner I insisted on sewing myself. She doesn't say much, just works beside us with quiet companionship that feels like family.
"The O is definitely bigger than the other letters," she observes one night, holding up my handiwork.
"It's artistic."
"It's lopsided." But she smiles when she says it, and I don't mind the critique.
Landon leans over my shoulder to examine the fabric. "I think it has character."
"You think my seven-pointed stars have character too."
"They do." He kisses my temple. "Very modern. Very avant-garde."
I swat at him with my needle cushion, and for a few blessed hours, the weight of the Remington name doesn't press quite so heavily.
But one night, I can't sleep.
I slip out of bed and pad down the hallway toward the nursery, my bare feet silent against the cool floor. I'm halfway there when I hear it—a low voice, barely more than a murmur.
Landon.
The door is cracked open, and soft lamplight spills into the corridor. I stop at the threshold, my heart stuttering at what I see.
He's standing by the window, Elsie cradled against his chest. She's asleep, her tiny fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, her breathing slow and peaceful. He's swaying slightly, instinctively, though she's already dreaming.
And he's talking to her.
"I'm going to do better," he whispers, his voice raw. "I know I haven't always been there. I know this house isn't what I wanted for you. But I'm going to give you everything, little one. Everything I never had."
My throat tightens.
"My father wasn't kind," he continues, his lips brushing her downy hair. "He was cold and calculating and he never once told me he loved me. Not once in my entire life." His voice breaks slightly. "I won't be like him. I swear to you, Elsie. You will always know how much I love you."
I press my hand to my mouth, afraid to make a sound.
"I'm sorry for the chaos you were born into. For the headlines and the enemies and the grandmother who doesn't understand that you're not a chess piece to be moved around a board." He shifts her gently, his hand spanning her tiny back. "But I will protect you. Always. No matter what it costs me."
Something cracks open inside my chest—something I didn't know was still guarded.
I cross the room and wrap my arms around them both, my cheek pressed to his shoulder, my hand finding the curve of our daughter's back.
Landon stiffens briefly, then relaxes into my embrace. "Emery. I didn't hear you come in."
"I know." I hold him tighter. "I know."
We stand there for a long moment, the three of us, while the night wraps around us like a promise.
Together, we lay Elsie in her crib. She makes a small sound of protest, her fingers grasping at air, but she settles quickly. We watch her breathe—in, out, in, out—her tiny chest rising and falling with perfect rhythm.
Finally, we step into the hallway.
I catch his wrist before he can move toward our bedroom. He turns, his eyes questioning in the dim light.
"Watching you with her," I say quietly, my voice thick. "It does things to me."
Something shifts in his expression. His gaze darkens, heat replacing tenderness.
"What kind of things?"
I don't answer with words. Instead, I press him backward toward our bedroom door, my fingers already working at his shirt buttons.
"Emery—"
I silence him with my mouth, swallowing whatever he was about to say. He groans against my lips, his hands finding my waist, pulling me flush against him.
I push him inside and kick the door shut behind us.