Page 37

CHAPTER 36

GUNNAR

I adjust my tie as we enter Uncle Tim's law office, Emerson's hand firmly clasped in mine. The entire floor exudes money and power –polished wood and glass complementing views of the three rivers converging. Tim's domain. And today, our war room.

Emerson looks small beside the massive conference table, but her spine is straight as she arranges her notes. I've never been prouder of her. Three weeks ago, she might have run from this fight. Now, she's preparing for battle.

"Sorry we're late," Mom announces, sweeping into the room in her pantsuit, briefcase in hand. "Docket ran long."

I wasn't expecting her, but I'm not surprised. The Stags mobilize for family.

"Juniper." Emerson's face brightens. "You didn't have to come."

Mom squeezes her shoulder. "Of course I did. Besides, I've dealt with family court judges for over twenty years. I might as well put that knowledge to use. Besides," she rolls her eyes, “Tim’s focus is sports law. He needs me, whether he’ll admit it or not.”

Uncle Tim enters with three associates trailing behind him. His usual scowl deepens as he tosses a folder onto the table. "These Saltzer people are something else."

"Tell me about it," I mutter, pulling out Emerson's chair.

Uncle Tim slaps the table. “I've reviewed the conservatorship filing. It's aggressive but deeply flawed."

Emerson's fingers tighten around mine. "So, they actually filed it?"

"Yesterday in New York," Tim confirms as he takes his seat. "But we've already filed a motion to dismiss along with a counter-petition for harassment and defamation."

Mom leans forward. "The jurisdiction itself poses a problem for them. You have established residence in Pennsylvania."

"They claim I'm only here temporarily," Emerson says quietly. "That I was...taken advantage of during a mental health crisis."

My jaw tightens. "That's bullshit."

"Of course it is," Mom agrees smoothly. "Which is why we've gathered substantial evidence of your independence and capacity."

Tim's associate distributes thick folders to each of us. I open mine to discover affidavits from Scale Up, testimonials from Emerson's students, and a note from Emerson’s therapist.

"We also have documented evidence of your father's controlling behavior and retaliation," Tim adds.

"The symphony board is cooperating fully," Mom notes. "With us. Not him."

I squeeze Emerson's hand under the table as she emits a low, shocked sound. "See? We've got this."

Tim adjusts his glasses. "There's something else you should know." His expression softens – a rare sight. "Your father's position with the symphony is becoming increasingly precarious. The administrative leave may become permanent."

Emerson blinks. "What does that mean for their case?"

"It means they likely don't have the resources for a prolonged legal battle," Mom explains. "Conservatorship cases are expensive, especially when contested."

I lean back, processing this. "So you're saying they're bluffing?"

"I'm saying they're desperate," Tim corrects. "Which makes them dangerous but also vulnerable."

Mom exchanges a look with Tim. "We think it's time to go on the offensive."

One of the associates who helped prepare my contract with the Fury earlier this year slides a document across the table. "We're proposing a cease and desist with very specific terms. They must drop all proceedings, agree to no contact without your explicit consent, and we won't pursue a harassment suit that would further damage your father's reputation."

I watch Emerson's face as she reads the document. She's been so worried about my career taking hits that she hasn't fully processed what her father stands to lose.

"They won't agree to this," she says finally.

"They will if they're smart," Tim replies. "Your father's future depends on rehabilitating his image. A prolonged legal battle with his 'mentally unstable' daughter won't help that cause."

I shift in my seat. "What about our marriage? They're using the Vegas thing against us."

"Already handled," Mom smiles. "I've arranged for Judge Hernandez to officiate a legal ceremony next week. Unless you’d like me to do it.”

"You can do that?" Emerson asks.

Mom winks. "There are advantages to twenty years on the bench, dear."

I feel the knot in my chest loosen for the first time since the letter arrived. We have a plan, we have power, and we have family.

"What do we do now?" I ask.

"First," Tim says, checking his watch, "we have that video conference call with the Saltzers and their counsel in five minutes." My stomach tightens. Tim nods to an assistant hovering in the doorway. "Set up the zoom machine."

As the large screen on the wall flickers to life, I try not to laugh at my Uncle’s attempt at a technology joke. I move closer to Emerson, watching her gather herself. She straightens her shoulders and lifts her chin—little movements transforming her from the woman who once flinched at confrontation to someone ready for battle.

"You don't have to say anything," I whisper. "Tim and Mom can handle this."

Emerson shakes her head. "No. I need to speak for myself. That's the whole point."

The screen splits to reveal Emerson's parents and their lawyer in a sterile white conference room in New York. The contrast between our spaces couldn't be more stark. Her mother's pearls gleam against her silk blouse, while her father's face is already reddening above his perfectly knotted tie.

"Emerson." Her mother's voice is clipped. "You look... healthy."

I almost snort at the passive-aggressive dig but keep my face neutral. This is Emerson's moment.

"I am healthy," she responds evenly. "And happy."

Her father scoffs. "Happy? Playing nursery tunes with street children? That's hardly a productive use of your talents."

I feel my fists clench beneath the table. The smug condescension in his voice makes me want to put my fist through the screen.

"Those children deserve music education," Emerson says, her voice steady. "And I deserve to teach how I choose."

"You deserve nothing." Her father's fist hits the table. "We gave you everything—the best teachers, the finest opportunities. And you threw it all away for what? Some hockey thug and his uncouth family?"

I tense but keep silent. Tim shoots me a warning glance. This isn't about me.

"You gave me restrictions. Expectations. Control." Emerson's words flow with surprising strength. "But the Stags gave me something better—they gave me choice."

"Choice?" Her mother's laugh is brittle. "You chose to embarrass us. To destroy your father's reputation with these ridiculous allegations?—"

"The allegations," Tim interrupts smoothly, "are well-documented. Would you like to review the testimony from female musicians? The pattern of discrimination? The hostile work environment?"

Their lawyer, a rail-thin man with wire-rimmed glasses, shifts uncomfortably. "Perhaps we should discuss terms."

"Terms?" Her father's face purples. "There are no terms. She will return to New York, resume her proper place?—"

"That's not happening." Emerson's voice rings clear and strong. I've never heard her sound so certain. "I'm not your puppet anymore."

"You ungrateful—" Her father starts to rise, but their lawyer grabs his arm.

"Mr. Saltzer," the lawyer's tone is sharp. "That's enough." He turns to the camera. "My clients need to change strategy. The board's investigation is conclusive. Fighting this will only cause further damage."

Her mother's face crumples. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying it's done." The lawyer shuffles papers. "The best course now is to accept the administrative leave and focus on damage control."

Her father slumps in his chair, defeat etched into every line of his face. It's an expression I've never seen before on the rare occasions I've encountered him—the great maestro, finally conducting his last performance.

"So, this is how you end our relationship." Her mother's voice breaks. "After everything we've done for you."

"No." Emerson leans forward, and I place my hand on her back, feeling her strength. "This is how I begin my own life. Without your control, without your criticism, without your constant disapproval."

"You're nothing without us," her father spits. "Nothing."

Mom stiffens beside me, but Emerson doesn't flinch.

"I'm everything without you," she tells them. "I'm a musician who brings joy instead of pressure. I'm a teacher who builds confidence instead of fear. I'm a wife who is truly loved." She takes a deep breath. "I'm finally myself."

Tim moves to end the call, but I can't resist leaning forward into frame.

"This isn't the end," I say, looking directly at her father. "It's just the beginning of the Emerson Era."

The screen goes dark. In the silence that follows, I pull Emerson close and kiss her temple.

"You okay?" I ask softly.

She nods, a smile spreading across her face. "Better than okay."

Uncle Tim’s associate starts gathering her papers. "Well, that was productive. I'll file the cease and desist regarding the mental health allegations immediately. They won't risk any further legal exposure."

Tim looks impressed—a rare expression for him. "Well done, Emerson. I think we've seen the last of their legal maneuvers."

Mom squeezes Emerson's shoulder. "I'm proud of you, sweetheart."

As we prepare to leave, Emerson turns to me. "Did you mean what you said? About this being the beginning?"

I cup her face in my hands. "Every word. The beginning of our real life together. No more pretending, no more doubts."

"No more running," she adds.

"Exactly." I grin. "Now, how about we grab the twins and get some victory pierogies?"

"God, yes." She laughs, and the sound fills me with more satisfaction than any shutout I've ever achieved. "I love you, you know that?"

"I had a pretty good idea." I take her hand as we head toward the door. "But I love hearing it."