Emery’s POV
The taxi crawls through traffic while I press my forehead against the window, the glass cool against my feverish skin.
The hospital's antiseptic smell still clings to my clothes. Every red light feels like an eternity. Every mile stretches impossibly long between me and my daughter.
Elsie. The thought of her face keeps my fingers curled into fists against my thighs.
"Rush hour," the driver says apologetically, glancing at me in the rearview mirror. "Should clear up in a few minutes."
I don't respond. I can't. My throat is too tight with fury barely contained beneath my skin.
When the taxi finally pulls through the iron gates of the estate, I throw cash at the driver without counting and push out before the car fully stops. My heels crack against the gravel as I cross the circular drive, past the staff member who tries to greet me, through the front doors with a force that makes them bang against the walls.
The main sitting room. That's where instinct pulls me.
I find them arranged like a portrait—Portia in her usual chair, posture immaculate, with Elsie perched on her lap. But it's Lily who makes my blood turn to ice. She's crouched nearby, phone angled to capture the perfect shot, her lips moving through what sounds like a caption.
"Grandmother-granddaughter bonding," she murmurs, adjusting the angle. "Nothing like family time to—"
I cross the room in three strides and lift Elsie from Portia's arms without a word.
My daughter is wearing a dress I've never seen—pink silk with pearl buttons, expensive and ridiculous for a one-year-old. Her hair has been brushed into tiny curls, styled and sprayed like she's a doll. A prop against Portia's designer suit.
"Emery." Portia's voice carries a note of surprise. "We weren't expecting you back so soon."
I don't answer her. My attention stays fixed on Lily, who's lowering her phone with an expression caught between guilt and defiance.
"I was just sharing a sweet moment with my followers." She gestures toward the carefully arranged scene. "It's harmless content. People love this kind of thing."
"My daughter is not content for your vanity."
The words come out flat. Controlled. But Lily flinches like I've slapped her.
"That's a bit dramatic." She straightens, tucking her phone into her pocket. "It's one photo. She looked adorable. I don't see what the big deal is."
"The big deal is that you put my child on display without my permission." I press Elsie closer to my chest. She squirms slightly, confused by the tension radiating through my body. "Again."
"I changed her into a nice dress. I brushed her hair. Forgive me for wanting my niece to look presentable."
"Presentable for what? Your Instagram engagement?"
Lily's chin lifts. "You're being ridiculous."
"Am I?" I feel something dark rising in my throat. "While I was at the hospital watching my friend fight for her life, you were staging photo shoots with my daughter. While paramedics were pumping Harmony's stomach, you were crafting captions about family bonding."
"That's not fair." Lily's voice sharpens. "We were taking care of Elsie while you were gone. That's what family does."
"Family?" The word tastes like ash. "Don't make me laugh."
Portia rises from her chair, her movements slow and deliberate. "Emery, perhaps we should all calm down. You've clearly had a difficult day."
"Difficult doesn't begin to cover it."
"How is Harmony?" Portia's expression arranges itself into something resembling concern. "The staff mentioned it was quite serious."
I study her face—the careful sympathy, the measured tone, the way her eyes don't quite match her words. Something cold settles in my chest.
"She was poisoned."
The word lands like a bomb.
Lily freezes mid-gesture. Portia's mask flickers, just for an instant, before smoothing back into place.
"Poisoned?" Portia's hand drifts to her throat. "Good heavens. By whom?"
"That's what I intend to find out." I hold her gaze without blinking. "The doctors found lethal levels of sedatives in her system. Benzodiazepines. Someone wanted her dead or close to it."
Silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating.
Portia recovers first. "How terrible. I had no idea she was struggling with such problems."
"She wasn't."
"Depression can be quite hidden, dear. Perhaps she had demons none of us knew about." Portia settles back into her chair with practiced grace. "Mental health issues are nothing to be ashamed of, but it does make one wonder about her stability."
"She didn't do this to herself."
"Of course you want to believe that." Portia's voice drips with false sympathy. "She was your friend. It must be devastating to learn she was suffering in silence."
Lily chimes in, her tone shifting to something saccharine and performative. "How sad. How completely unexpected." She shakes her head slowly. "But honestly, Emery, how could you let someone so unstable near your child? What if she'd had an episode while caring for Elsie?"
Rage and helplessness war inside my chest.
I have no proof. I have only instinct and the memory of Harmony's gray face in the ambulance, the terrible flutter of her eyelids, the way her fingers clutched at nothing.
"She wasn't unstable." My voice comes out steady despite the storm building behind my ribs. "She was targeted."
"Targeted?" Lily laughs, but it sounds forced. "By whom? The kitchen staff? A rogue gardener?"
"Don't play innocent with me."
Portia's expression sharpens. "I hope you're not implying what I think you're implying."
"I'm not implying anything." I shift Elsie higher on my hip, feeling her small fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt. "I'm stating facts. Harmony was healthy. She didn't take medications. She was devoted to protecting my daughter. And now she's lying in a hospital bed, accused of something she didn't do."
"Emery." Portia's voice carries an edge of warning. "You're upset. Understandably so. But making wild accusations without evidence is beneath you."
"You're right. I don't have evidence." I meet her eyes, holding nothing back. "Yet."
Something flickers in Portia's expression—calculation, perhaps. Or the faintest trace of unease.
"I'm going to be watching," I continue, my voice dropping to something quiet and cold. "Every move. Every whisper. Every pill that enters this house. Every staff member who comes near my daughter. Every meal, every drink, every carefully timed coincidence."
Lily shifts uncomfortably. "You're paranoid."
"Maybe." I don't look away from Portia. "But paranoid people are hard to poison."
Portia's smile doesn't waver. It stays fixed in place, pleasant and unreadable, like a mask carved from marble. But I see it now—the calculation behind her eyes, the wheels turning as she adjusts her strategy.
"We only want what's best for Elsie," she says smoothly. "We all want the same thing, Emery. Perhaps when you've had time to rest and process this shock, you'll see that more clearly."
I don't respond.
Instead, I turn and walk away with my daughter pressed against my heart, her small body warm and solid against mine. She makes a soft sound, her fingers patting my cheek, and something fierce and protective swells inside my chest.
Behind me, I feel their eyes following my retreat. I hear the rustle of expensive fabric, the click of heels against marble.
Let them watch.