Page 62 of In A Mood For Mr. Wrong

The energyinsidePerfectly Matchedhas shifted. The air crackles with urgency, the hum of voices and ringing phones blending into the chaotic symphony of a company preparing for war.

The second Olivia hears the news, she launches into crisis-management mode, her fingers flying over the keyboard as she pulls up press contacts, legal analysts, and every strategic move we have left.

“The media hasn’t picked it upyet,” she says, pacing at the front of the conference room, “but if Eleanor already has the story lined up, it’s only a matter of time before it breaks.”

Grayson sits at the end of the long table, silent. He hasn’t spoken much since the call. His usual confidence, his sharp wit, the barely concealed arrogance that makes him, it’s all locked away behind a carefully constructed wall. I hate seeing him like this. I hate thatsheis doing this to him.

Olivia adjusts her glasses, her tone sharp. “We need to get ahead of this before it spirals.”

I nod, shifting into strategy mode. “We take control of the story before she does.”

Grayson lets out a sharp breath, finally speaking. “You meanspinit.”

Olivia shrugs. “Welcome to PR, King. The truth doesn’t matter, only thestorypeople believe.”

He exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face. “Great.”

I hesitate for half a second before speaking, before pushing forward even though every instinct in me is screaming that there are parts of this I can’t fix. “Grayson…”

He lifts his gaze, and for the first time in forever, I see something in his expression that terrifies me. Doubt. Uncertainty. The kind of vulnerability that he never shows, not to me, not to anyone.

I take a breath. “We don’t let her win.”

For a long moment, he just looks at me. Then, finally, he nods.

I am finallyin my apartment but sleep refuses to come. I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, the city’s glow filtering through my curtains in soft, fractured patterns. The distant hum of traffic is constant, an unbroken rhythm that should be comforting, but instead, it only makes the silence inside my apartment feel heavier. I turn onto my side, pulling the blanket higher, but it doesn’t help. The weight pressing against my chest isn’t something a warm bed can fix. My mind won’t stop replaying today.

The tension in Grayson’s shoulders when he realized Eleanor was coming for him. The way his hands clenched into fists as he tried to hold himself together. The crack in his voice when he said, she wants to erase me. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the memory away. Grayson King doesn’t doubt himself. Hedoesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t fold under pressure. But today, he looked like a man standing on the edge of something dangerous. Something that, if he falls, he might not be able to climb back from. The thought makes my stomach twist. I push the blankets off, frustration simmering beneath my skin, and head to the kitchen.

The apartment is too quiet, too still. I pour myself a glass of wine and lean against the counter, the cool marble grounding me. I should leave him alone. I should give him space to process everything. But I can’t stop thinking about the way he looked at me today, like he wasn’t sure if there was anything left of himself to fight for. Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab my phone and type out a message:Are you okay?

I hesitate, my thumb hovering over the send button. If I send this, I’m crossing a line. Not a professional one, we burned that bridge a long time ago, but a personal one. A line where caring about him becomes something deeper, something I can’t control. But the truth is, I already crossed that line the moment I let him kiss me again. The moment I let myselfwanthim again. Before I can overthink it, I press send. The three dots appear immediately. Then they disappear. Then they reappear. My heart pounds as I watch the screen, waiting. Then…

Grayson:Not even close.

The breath I didn’t realize I was holding slips out in a slow, uneven exhale. I stare at the words for a long moment, my fingers tightening around my phone. I don’t know what I was expecting, but that, his honesty, his lack of pretense, makes my chest ache. Another message appears.

Grayson:I don’t know what to do.

I swallow hard, my grip tightening. Then, after a long pause…

Grayson:Can I come over?

My pulse stumbles. My fingers tremble slightly as I type back the only answer I know I want to give. I type:Yeah.

The second I hit send, my heart slams against my ribs. Because I know exactly what this means. Grayson doesn’t ask for help. He doesn’t reach out. He doesn’tneedpeople. But tonight, he needs something real. Something solid. Somethingme. And the terrifying part? I don’t think I want to stop him.

44

GRAYSON

Idon’t remember the drive to Margot’s apartment. One moment, I am staring at my phone, the weight of the day pressing down on me like an iron vise, and the next, I am parked outside her building, gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles ache. I shouldn’t be here. I should be handling the crisis unfolding around me, strategizing for the inevitable fallout that will come with Eleanor’s attack. But instead, I am sitting outside Margot’s apartment, unable to force myself to leave. Because maybe, right now, she is the only thing that makes sense. The thought unsettles me almost as much as the situation I have found myself in.

With a slow exhale, I kill the engine and push the car door open. The night air is crisp against my skin, carrying the lingering scents of city life, faint traces of rain, distant car exhaust, the warm spice of someone’s late-night takeout. But I barely register any of it. My body moves on autopilot, each step up to her building feeling heavier than the last, my mind still spinning with everything that has unraveled in the past twelve hours. I don’t hesitate when I reach her door. I knock twice, the sound solid and final, and within seconds, she is there.

Margot stands barefoot in the doorway, her hair slightly tousled, her face open but cautious. She is wearing an oversized sweatshirt that is definitely not hers, the hem brushing against her bare thighs, making my pulse spike. But it’s not just how she looks, it’s the way she watches me. The way her blue eyes scan my face, searching for something unspoken. She doesn’t ask why I am here. She doesn’t have to. She simply steps aside, wordlessly inviting me in. And just like that, I step over the threshold, into the one place that still feels like solid ground. The door closes softly behind me, shutting out the rest of the world, leaving just the two of us standing in the dim glow of her apartment.

Margot doesn’t speak right away. She watches me, waiting, her arms crossed loosely over her chest. I know she is giving me time, space to find the words I need, but the truth is, I don’t have them.

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