Mr. Remington Got Me Pregnant

Chapter 61

Emery’s POV

Marian begins appearing where she should not be.

The first time, I almost convince myself it's coincidence. Portia hosts a charity luncheon in the estate's formal dining room—an event I learn about only when I walk past and hear her distinctive laugh floating through the doorway.

I pause at the threshold, scanning the assembled guests, and my stomach drops.

Marian sits beside Lily like an honored guest, their heads bent together in conversation, champagne flutes catching the afternoon light. She looks up as if sensing my presence, and her smile carries the sharp edge of victory.

"Emery!" Portia's voice rings out, theatrical and warm. "How lovely that you've joined us. Come, there's an empty seat."

I don't take it. I mumble something about checking on Elsie and retreat before anyone can see my hands shaking.

The second time is worse.

I walk into the family dining room for what I thought was a quiet Sunday brunch, only to find Marian already there. She's pouring coffee from the silver pot like she lives here, her movements easy and familiar, her blonde hair catching sunlight from the windows.

"Good morning," she says pleasantly, not even bothering to look surprised. "I hope you don't mind—Portia invited me for breakfast. We had a foundation business to discuss."

Lily smirks from her end of the table. "Marian practically grew up in this house. It would be strange not to have her."

I stand frozen in the doorway, processing what I'm seeing. The woman who tried to destroy my marriage, who orchestrated my public humiliation, who drove me to a hospital bed with her calculated cruelty—she's sitting at my family's table like she belongs there.

"Of course," I manage, my voice steadier than I feel. "How convenient."

I take my seat across from her and pour my own coffee with careful precision. Every movement is controlled. Every breath is measured. I will not give her the satisfaction of a reaction.

But inside, something cold and sharp is taking root.

Marian never confronts me directly anymore. She doesn't need to. Her presence alone is the weapon—a constant reminder that even in my own home, I have no sanctuary. No walls she cannot breach.

I watch her laugh at something Lily says, watch her touch Portia's arm with familiar affection, watch her exist in spaces that should be safe.

She's not visiting. She's positioning.

That afternoon, I find Landon in his study, his jaw tight with barely contained frustration.

"You noticed," I say from the doorway.

He looks up, his expression confirming everything. "I noticed."

"Are you going to do something about it?"

He pushes back from his desk and crosses to me, his hand finding my waist. "I already tried. My mother and I had words."

"What kind of words?"

His laugh is bitter, humorless. "The kind that went nowhere." He guides me to the small sofa by the window, pulling me down beside him. "I asked her directly—demanded to know why Marian suddenly has unrestricted access to the estate."

"And?"

"She gave me that look." He runs a hand through his hair, frustration radiating from every line of his body. "The one that says I'm being unreasonable. She told me Marian is practically family, always has been. That it would be rude to turn her away now, after everything she's done for the Foundation."

I feel my fingers curling into fists against my thighs. "That's absurd."

"I told her that. I pushed harder." His voice drops, something dark entering his expression. "That's when she reminded me this is still her house. Her name on the deed. She'll invite whomever she pleases."

The words land like stones in still water, sending ripples through everything I thought I understood about our position here.

"She said that?" My voice comes out quieter than I intended. "Exactly that?"

"Exactly that." Landon's hand finds mine, his grip almost painful. "I'm sorry, Emery. I thought coming here would protect you. Instead, I've trapped you in enemy territory."

I stare at our joined hands, processing the implications. Portia isn't just tolerating Marian's presence—she's orchestrating it. Every appearance, every casual intrusion, every moment Marian spends in spaces I thought were mine—it's all coordinated.

"What did you say?" I ask finally. "When she reminded you whose name is on the deed?"

"I told her I'd take you and Elsie somewhere else. Somewhere she couldn't reach." His jaw tightens. "She laughed. Actually laughed. Said I was welcome to try, but that Remington money tends to find people wherever they go."

The threat is unmistakable. Even in his recounting, I hear Portia's message clearly: there is no escape. No corner of the world is far enough to hide from her reach.

"So we're trapped," I say flatly.

"We're not trapped." Landon turns to face me fully, his eyes fierce. "We're just... regrouping. Finding a new strategy."

"Landon." I cup his face in my hands, forcing him to really look at me. "Your mother just told you that this house belongs to her. That Marian belongs here more than I do. And there's nothing you can do about it."

"There has to be something—"

"There isn't." The words hurt to say, but they're true. "Not yet. Not from where we're standing."

He pulls me against his chest, his arms wrapping around me like he's trying to shield me from a storm we both know is coming. I let myself sink into him for just a moment, drawing strength from his warmth, his solidity.

Then I pull back.

"I need to check on Elsie," I tell him.

He nods, releasing me reluctantly. "We'll figure this out."

"I know." I press a kiss to his forehead. "I know we will."

In the nursery, I find my daughter sleeping peacefully, her tiny fingers curled around the edge of her blanket. I sink into the rocking chair beside her crib and let the quiet settle around me.

My fingers find Elsie's favorite blanket—the soft yellow one with the embroidered ducks—and I hold it against my chest like armor.

Marian is not visiting. The thought crystallizes with terrible clarity. She's establishing territory. Building a presence that will be harder and harder to dislodge.

Portia is clearing the path. Making it seem normal, inevitable, that Marian should be here. That she belongs while I remain the outsider.

Whatever comes next—whatever final blow they're planning—this is the groundwork. The foundation being laid for something I can't yet see.

I watch my daughter sleep, her face peaceful and trusting, and I feel something harden in my chest. I need to be ready.