Mr. Remington Got Me Pregnant

Chapter 74

Emery’s POV

The garden looks magical.

Paper lanterns sway in the afternoon breeze, their soft glow waiting for dusk. Children dart through obstacle courses set up on the south lawn, their laughter carrying across the manicured hedges. A modest cake decorated with Elsie's name in buttercream letters sits beneath a white tent, surrounded by pastel balloons and wildflowers I picked myself.

I hold my daughter against my hip and try to feel the joy I planned for.

"Smile, Mrs. Remington." The photographer adjusts his lens. "Perfect. Now let's get one with the whole family."

Landon appears at my side, his hand settling on the small of my back. The touch feels rehearsed. Mechanical. We haven't spoken more than a handful of words, since I walked out of his office with our daughter and left him standing there with Marian.

"Beautiful," the photographer says. "You three look absolutely perfect together."

We do. That's the tragedy of it.

Landon leans close, his breath warm against my ear. "Can we talk later? Please?"

"Not now." I keep my smile fixed in place. "This is Elsie's day."

He pulls back, something wounded flickering across his face before he smooths it away. We pose for three more shots, then separate like magnets repelling. He moves toward a cluster of business associates. I move toward the refreshment table.

The distance between us feels like miles.

"Emery."

I turn to find Reagan Walsh cutting through the crowd, Bruce trailing behind her with a gift bag. She looks elegant in cream linen, her silver hair swept back, her expression sharp with purpose.

"Reagan." I shift Elsie to my other hip. "Thank you for coming."

"Wouldn't miss it." She reaches out and squeezes my hand, her grip firm and deliberate. "I heard about your nanny. The hospitalization."

My breath catches. "How did you—"

"News travels fast in certain circles." Her eyes hold knowing weight, the kind that comes from decades of navigating these waters. "How awful. How suspicious."

The word hangs between us. Suspicious. Not tragic. Not unfortunate. Suspicious.

"She's recovering," I manage. "Slowly."

Reagan glances around, then steps closer, lowering her voice. "Sedatives in dangerous concentrations don't appear by accident. Not in a house like this."

"I know."

"Do you know who?"

"Not yet."

She studies my face for a long moment, reading something in my expression that makes her jaw tighten. Then she nods once, decisively.

"I'm staying close today." Her hand finds mine again, squeezing with unexpected warmth. "Whatever you need. Whatever happens."

The relief that floods through me is almost embarrassing. I've spent so long fighting alone that the simple offer of alliance feels like water in a desert.

"Thank you," I whisper.

"Don't thank me yet." Her smile sharpens. "The day is young."

Bruce steps forward with the gift bag, his weathered face creasing into genuine warmth as he looks at Elsie. "Happy birthday, little one. Your grandmother would be proud of who your mama's become."

The words pierce something tender in my chest. I blink rapidly and manage a smile. "She would have loved this."

"She would have loved you." Reagan brushes a finger across Elsie's cheek. "Both of you."

Elsie babbles happily, reaching for the sparkly ribbon on the gift bag. I laugh despite everything, the sound surprising me.

For the next hour, the party proceeds smoothly.

Children chase each other through the obstacle course. Parents gather in clusters, champagne in hand, discussing summer plans and school admissions. Landon circulates among the guests with practiced ease, playing the role of devoted father even as his eyes keep finding mine across the lawn.

I avoid him. I greet guests, accept compliments on the decorations, watch Elsie discover the joy of ripping wrapping paper. I pretend we are a normal family celebrating a normal milestone.

"She's absolutely precious," someone says.

"Such a beautiful party," another adds.

"You must be so proud."

I smile until my face aches.

Reagan stays close, just as she promised. She intercepts conversations that veer toward gossip, deflects questions about Harmony's absence, positions herself as a buffer between me and the more pointed curiosity of certain guests.

"The Collins woman was fishing," she murmurs during a quiet moment. "I shut it down."

"Thank you."

"She's a snake. Always has been." Reagan sips her champagne. "Probably reports directly to Portia."

I glance toward the house, half expecting to see my mother-in-law watching from a window. But Portia has kept her distance today, a small mercy I don't trust.

"She's waiting for something," I say quietly.

"They always are."

The sun begins its slow descent toward the horizon, painting the garden in shades of gold and amber. Paper lanterns flicker to life. Children start to flag, their energy finally depleted. Parents begin gathering belongings, making their goodbyes.

Almost done, I think. We almost made it through.

Then I hear it—the crunch of gravel on the front drive. A car approaching. Uninvited.

My stomach drops.

Reagan's hand finds my arm, her fingers tightening. "Emery."

I turn toward the sound, already knowing what I'll see.

A sleek black car rolls up the drive, its windows tinted, its presence unmistakable. The kind of car that announces itself without trying. The kind that belongs to someone who doesn't wait for invitations.

The driver's door opens. A uniformed chauffeur emerges, moving around to the passenger side with practiced efficiency.

Time slows.

The rear door swings open, and Marian steps out.

She's wearing a sundress—pale pink with delicate florals, the exact shade of the decorations I chose for Elsie's party. As if she knew. As if someone told her every detail of what I planned.

Her eyes find mine across the lawn, and she smiles.

Not triumphant. Not cruel. Worse than either.

She smiles like she belongs here. Like she was expected. Like this is exactly where she's supposed to be.

I feel Elsie's weight in my arms, feel Reagan's grip on my elbow, feel Landon's gaze burning into my back from somewhere behind me.

And I understand, with perfect clarity, that Marian didn't crash this party.

Portia invited her. Like most of those I didn't expect to see here.