Page 89 of In A Mood For Mr. Wrong

I exchange a glance with Margot before turning to him.

“We’re in.”

For a moment, there’s silence.

Then, Cassian grins. “Smart choice.”

Isabella, still leaning back in her chair, tilts her head. “Do you trust him?”

Margot’s lips quirk. “No.”

I chuckle, shaking my head. “Not even a little.”

Cassian laughs, completely unbothered. “That’s probably wise.”

Olivia clears her throat, setting a thick file on the table. “Then let’s talk logistics.”

And just like that,Perfectly Matchedchanges forever.

Hours later,after the contract has been signed and the final details locked in, Cassian and Isabella find themselves alone in one ofPerfectly Matched’sprivate lounges. The space is luxurious yet intimate, deep sapphire walls, dim lighting, velvet seating that invites whispered conversations and careful plotting. A crystal decanter of bourbon sits on the sleek black marble bar, the amber liquid catching the light as Cassian pours himself a drink.

Isabella stands a few feet away, arms crossed, watching him with narrowed eyes. Her expression is unreadable, but her posture is rigid, her weight shifted onto one leg in that way that tells me she’s barely holding back something sharp.

Cassian finally speaks, his voice smooth but knowing. “So that’s it?” He glances at her over the rim of his glass, taking a slow sip. “You get exactly what you want, and now you’rebrooding?”

Isabella’s jaw tightens. “You think I wantedthis?”

Cassian smirks, setting his drink down. “I think you wantedsomething. And now that we’rein, you don’t know whether to be thrilled or furious.”

She exhales, rubbing her temples.“You’re playing a dangerous game, Laurent.”

His smirk doesn’t falter. “Aren’tthosethe best kind?”

Isabella scoffs, pushing off the bar. “You act like everything is just a game to you.”

Cassian steps closer, his voice dropping an octave. “Youactlike you don’tlove it.”

Silence. The air between themshifts, thickens.

Cassian tilts his head. “You think I don’t see it?” He takes another slow step toward her, closing the distance. “The way you light up every time we argue? The way you lean in, waiting for me to push just a littlemore?”

Isabella lets out a slow breath. “Youwishthat were true.”

Cassian grins. “Oh, Monroe. I know it’s true.”

For a second, shealmostleans in. Almost. Then, with a sharp inhale, she takes a step back, smoothing down her dress. “We should focus on the deal.”

Cassian watches her retreat with something dark in his gaze.

“Right,” he murmurs, swirling his bourbon. “The deal.”

But theybothknow this isn’t over. Not even close.

Back at the penthouse,Margot and I sit on the balcony, a bottle of wine between us and the city glittering far below. The space is quiet, private, an urban sanctuary carved out of glass and steel. Overhead, string lights cast a soft golden glow, while the faint sounds of honking horns and distant music drift up from the streets below.

We’re curled up on a cushioned outdoor loveseat nestled against the railing, wrapped in a thick, woven blanket. A low table sits in front of us with the nearly finished bottle, a couple of empty takeout containers, and Margot’s heels kicked off underneath.

The breeze is cool, but not cold, just enough to make her tuck herself closer into my side. She sips her wine slowly, her gaze fixed on the skyline.

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