Chapter 6 - The Trojan Horse
The first Saturday visitation arrived with a cold, grey light over Tacoma.
At 2:00 PM sharp, the doorbell rang.
I opened the door to find two people standing on the porch.
The first was Ms. Sarah Jenkins—a professional, middle-aged court-appointed guardian ad litem carrying a clipboard and a recording tablet.
The second was Landon. He was dressed in soft, approachable casual wear—a beige cashmere sweater, dark jeans, and clean leather loafers. He carried a huge teddy bear and a massive bouquet of yellow roses—my favorite flowers during college.
"Good afternoon, Ms. Pierce," Ms. Jenkins said politely, stepping inside. "We are here for the court-ordered evaluation session."
"Welcome, Ms. Jenkins," I said, stepping aside. "The nursery is upstairs."
Landon stepped into the foyer, handing the roses toward me with a soft, timid smile. "Corinne... I brought these for you. I remembered how much you loved yellow roses when we were at UW."
I didn't take them. "Put them on the side table, Landon. The girls are awake."
Landon’s smile twitched slightly, but he quickly recovered, following Ms. Jenkins up the stairs to the nursery.
The next hour was a masterclass in psychological manipulation.
Landon sat on the soft rug in the nursery, holding Daisy in his arms, feeding her a bottle with delicate, agonizing care, while whispering sweet lullabies. He looked up at Ms. Jenkins every few minutes, offering humble, self-deprecating remarks about how much he had to learn, taking meticulous notes when Ms. Jenkins explained how to check Violet’s pulse-oximeter monitor.
"He is doing remarkably well," Ms. Jenkins whispered to me near the nursery door as she jotted notes onto her tablet. "He seems genuinely committed to learning the care routine."
"He's an actor, Ms. Jenkins," I whispered back quietly. "His entire career was built on selling illusions to wealthy investors."
By 3:30 PM, the girls were fed, burped, and lying peacefully on their play mat.
Landon stood up, stretching his back, putting on an exhausted, happy father expression. He walked over to the changing table where I was folding clean baby clothes.
"Corinne," Landon said softly, keeping his voice low so Ms. Jenkins—who was busy typing her official report near the window—couldn't hear every detail. "They are incredible. You’ve done a magnificent job with them."
"I did it without you, Landon," I said without looking up from the onesies.
"I know," Landon murmured, taking a slow step closer, his voice dropping into that smooth, hypnotic register he used whenever he wanted something. "I know I failed you, Corinne. I see it every night when I close my eyes in that empty apartment. I don't care about the firm anymore. I don't care about Brielle—I blocked her number weeks ago."
I paused, holding a pink onesie in my hands, listening.
"I just want my wife back," Landon whispered, reaching out his hand, his fingers stopping just an inch from my cheek. "Look at us here today. We were a team once, Corinne. We built this nursery together. Let me come home. We can drop the lawyers, drop the court cases... we can give our daughters the whole, beautiful family they deserve."
He looked at me with eyes so full of raw, convincing emotion that for a split second—a single, fleeting microsecond—a wave of deep, painful nostalgia washed over me. I remembered the man who used to hold my hand in college, the man who kissed my forehead when the pregnancy test turned positive.
Then, my eyes drifted down to his wrist.
Tucked slightly beneath the cuff of his beige cashmere sweater was a faint, blue stamp from The Vault—Seattle’s most exclusive private nightclub.
A stamp dated from late last night.
My heart hardened into pure diamond.
He hadn't been crying in an empty apartment over his broken marriage. He had been out drinking at an elite VIP lounge until 3:00 AM, sleeping off a hangover, and dressing up in a cashmere sweater to come here and perform for a court social worker.
I looked up into his eyes, offering a slow, beautiful, devastating smile.
"You really are incredible, Landon," I murmured softly.
Landon’s eyes lit up with sudden, eager victory. "You mean it? You'll consider it?"
"I mean," I leaned in, whispering softly against his ear, "that you forgot to wash the nightclub entrance stamp off your wrist before coming here to play house."
Landon stiffened instantly, pulling his hand back, staring at his wrist in absolute horror.
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"Time is up, Mr. Pierce," Ms. Jenkins announced loudly, standing up with her clipboard. "The two hours have concluded. Please prepare to leave."
I stood by the changing table, folding the pink onesie neatly, watching Landon’s face turn completely dark with sheer, unadulterated venom as he realized his Trojan Horse had just crashed into a brick wall.
