Page 15 of In A Mood For Mr. Wrong

I don’t doubt that. Grayson loves prying under my skin, unraveling me piece by piece. Too bad for him, I’ve spent years perfecting the art of keeping him at arm’s length. The waiter arrives, placing our food in front of us. The tension lingers, thick and unspoken. I pick up my fork, stabbing a piece of grilled salmon with more force than necessary.

"You’re unusually quiet, Evans," Grayson muses, cutting into his steak. "Something on your mind?"

Yes. Something, or someone, just blew up my entire strategy in a single text. "Just trying to figure out why you brought me here," I lie smoothly. "I know you, Grayson. You don’t do anything without an ulterior motive."

He grins. "Now that’s the smartest thing you’ve said all day."

I roll my eyes, but internally, I’m still unraveling. Because the truth is, I don’t have time to play whatever game Grayson is setting up, not when something far more dangerous is brewing. I take another sip of wine, pretending I don’t feel his gaze burning into me. But as much as I hate to admit it, Grayson isn’t my biggest problem anymore. Not after that message.Not afterhetexted me.And if Grayson figures out who it was?This war between us is about to become so much more than just business.

When Grayson looks away for a moment, probably to flash his signature smirk at the waitress, I flip my phone over and glance at the message again, my stomach twisting into knots.

Unknown Number:Miss me, Margot? Because I haven’t stopped thinking about you.

My grip tightens around the device. The text is simple, almost harmless if you didn’t know better. But I do. Because I know exactly who sent it.

Liam Carter. We met in law school, back when I still believed in structured plans and carefully laid-out futures. He was charming in that effortless, golden-boy way, always knowingexactly what to say, always making me feel like I was the most important person in the room. For a while, I let myself believe in the fantasy that he was the right choice, that we made sense.

But Liam had a way of controlling things without making it look like control. Small things at first, correcting how I phrased an argument, dismissing my ideas as ‘cute’ before spinning them as his own. Then, bigger things showing up unannounced when I had late nights, subtly pressuring me into choices I wasn’t sure I wanted.

By the time I realized how deep I was in, I felt like I was suffocating. So I did the only thing I could. I walked away. And Liam didn’t take it well. At first, he played the heartbroken ex, calling, begging for closure. Then, he became resentful, showing up at events I attended, making sure I saw him with someone new. And when I still refused to engage, he got angry. Threatening my career, my reputation, anything he could use as leverage to pull me back in.

It took months to cut ties completely. Months of ignored calls, blocked numbers, and even changing my phone number to ensure he couldn’t find a way back in. I made sure there was no trace of me in his world. And yet, after all this time, he’s back. How did he get my new number? How did he even know where to find me? A cold chill creeps down my spine. This isn’t a coincidence. Liam never let things go easily. And if he’s reaching out now, it means he’s been watching, waiting. For what, I have no idea. But if he’s found me once, he can do it again.

I glance at Grayson, who’s busy cutting his steak, completely unaware that my entire world just tilted sideways. A part of me, one I refuse to acknowledge, wants to tell him. To let him in, to confess that, for the first time in a long time, I feel the stirrings of fear.But I can’t. Because that would mean giving Grayson something too dangerous. Leverage. Instead, I inhale deeply, forcing a slow exhale as I type out a response.

Margot:Lose my number, Liam.

I hesitate, then delete it. No. That’s what he wants, a reaction. Instead, I lock my phone and push it away, reaching for my wine like nothing happened.

"You sure you’re not going to crack?" Grayson asks, his voice light, teasing.

I arch a brow. "You’d have to try a lot harder than this." But my pulse is still racing, my mind spinning with the implications. Liam is back and something tells me he isn’t going away quietly. The real question is what does he want, and how long before Grayson figures out that something is very wrong.

12

GRAYSON

Margot is hiding something. I know it the second her fingers tighten around her phone, her knuckles turning white for a fraction of a second before she schools her face back into that perfect, unbothered expression she wears like armor. But I saw the crack. She’s shaken. And that intrigues me more than it should.

I take my time cutting into my steak and watch her as I sip my water. Her body is here, seated across from me at this ridiculous power lunch I orchestrated to throw her off, but her mind? It’s somewhere else. Somewhere far away fromme, and I don’t like that.

Margot Evans and I exist in a constant state of battle. I push, she pushes back. I taunt, she bites. That’s our rhythm. It’s why we work so well as rivals. But this? This is different. She’s distracted. And that pisses me off. But underneath the irritation, something else lingers. A low, nagging sensation that has no business being there. Concern. Margot is not the kind of woman who gets rattled. I’ve seen her face down furious clients, investors twice her age, and reporters looking for a scandal andnot once has she ever lost that sharp, cutting edge. But right now, there’s something off about her and I can’t stand it.

"You sure you’re not going to crack?" I ask, letting my voice dip just enough to prod her.

She meets my gaze, lifting her chin with a practiced smirk. "You’d have to try a lot harder than this."

That should satisfy me. That’s our usual game. But something about the way she says it, it’s forced. A performance. And that makes my stomach tighten in a way I don’t particularly like.

I lean back, tapping my fingers against the table. "You know, Evans, if you were trying to convince me that you’re completely fine, you’re doing a shitty job."

Her grip tightens around her wine glass, but her smile doesn’t falter. "And if you were trying to convince me you’re perceptive, you’re also doing a shitty job."

I chuckle, but the feeling doesn’t quite reach my chest. "Deflect all you want, sweetheart. I see right through you."

She doesn’t respond right away, just holds my gaze for a second longer than necessary before looking away. That’s not like her. Margot never backs down, never lets me get the upper hand, except now, she’schoosingnot to engage. Something iswrong. And I hate that I care. It’s not my job to worry about her. She’s my competition. The woman I wake up every morning determined to outsmart, outplay, and outmaneuver. That’s how it’s always been. But the idea of someone else getting under her skin, making her hesitate, making herafraid because that’s what this is, even if she refuses to admit it, sits in my chest like a weight I don’t know what to do with. I don’t know what’s going on in that pretty, scheming head of hers, but I intend to find out. Because whatever it is, it has nothing to do with me and that’s the problem. Margot Evans should always be thinking about me. And if she’s not, then I need to make sure shedoes.

The second Margot steps away from the table, some excuse about needing to take a call, I pull out my phone and fire off a quick text to Olivia:Need intel. Meet me at Celeste. Now.

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