Page 106 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

He kisses her head, then mine. “You did it.”

“No,” I say, eyes locked on both of them. “We did.”

***

The lights dim again. A nurse moves softly around the room, cleaning up, adjusting machines, refolding blankets. Jazz hums on in the background. The scent of lavender, sweat, and new life lingers in the air.

Grayson slides into bed beside me, careful not to disturb the baby curled on my chest. One arm wraps around my back. His fingers brush hers.

“Are you crying?” I ask, quietly teasing.

“No,” he says. “I’m emotionally leaking.”

I smile into his shoulder. “Same.”

And in that quiet, golden hour before sunrise, in a room scented with everything we fought for, I know this with perfect clarity: This is the beginning of forever. And she is ours.

57

GRAYSON

The sun is just starting to rise outside the hospital window, painting streaks of amber and gold across the sterile walls of the recovery room. It should feel cold in here, clinical, fluorescent, impersonal, but somehow it doesn’t. Maybe it’s the way Margot is curled up in the bed beside me, her hair a dark halo against the pillow, breathing slow and deep. Or maybe it’s the warm, squirming bundle cradled against my chest.

Our daughter. I can’t believe I get to say that. She’s so small I can barely feel her weight, but every time she lets out a soft sigh, it echoes straight through my ribs. She’s wearing one of those tiny pink-and-blue hospital caps, and the swaddle around her is already starting to unravel, one impossibly small hand escaping like she’s preparing for a fight. Her skin is pink and warm and still blotchy in places, like she hasn't quite grown into the world yet.

“You’re a lot like your mom already,” I whisper. “Strong-willed. Loud. Impossible not to love.”

She shifts slightly, and I freeze like she’s made of porcelain. But then she settles again, this perfect, fragile thing with a nose that’s definitely Margot’s and cheeks that already look smug.

I glance at the bed. Margot is still asleep, her body cocooned in blankets, her face soft and unguarded. No tension between her brows. No fire in her jaw. Just calm. And beauty. And strength. The IV drip hums quietly beside her. Machines blink in steady rhythm. A nurse passes in the hallway beyond the frosted glass panel, but none of it reaches me here in this moment. I hold our daughter closer, gently, reverently.

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to be good at this,” I murmur. “But I know I want to be. For you. And for her.”

She lets out a soft hiccup. I bounce her gently, trying not to panic. “Okay, I’m improvising, your mom’s the one with the plans. I’m more of a… instincts and poor decisions kind of guy.”

From the bed, Margot stirs. I settle beside her, lowering our daughter into her arms. The second Margot holds her, the baby quiets like she’s home again. We both stare at her, tiny fingers, bowed lips, furrowed brow.

“She looks like she already disapproves of us,” Margot says. “That’s your influence.”

I smile. “I think she just wants to be in charge.”

“She came to the right family.”

Margot shifts slightly and glances at me.

“We still haven’t picked a name.”

“I was waiting to see if she came out with opinions,” I say.

“She came out screaming at everyone. So… yes.”

We scroll through the mental list. Some are too elegant, some too serious. One suggestion makes Margot laugh so hard she almost disturbs the baby. I suggest Juliet. She vetoes it immediately. “Too tragic.” I offer Nova. “She’s a baby, not a planet.”

“Evie?” I say finally.

Margot tilts her head. She tries it out softly. “Evie…” She looks down at our daughter, who shifts in her arms and lets out a small sigh like she approves.

“Yeah,” she says. “That fits.”

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