Page 17 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

“Color me impressed,” I murmur, picking up a fork. But the second the smell hits me, eggs, butter, strawberries too sweet, I feel the nausea rise again, hot and insistent.

I push the toast to one side, then pretend to check my phone as I nudge the plate farther away.

Grayson narrows his eyes, setting his mug down as he studies me more carefully. “You okay?” he asks, voice low but threaded with concern.

“Yeah,” I answer too quickly, the word falling out like a reflex rather than a truth. “Just… not that hungry.”

His gaze flicks to the plate I’ve barely touched. “You love strawberries.”

I glance at the fruit like it’s a stranger. “I guess I’m just off today.” I force a casual shrug, reaching for my phone like it might shield me from his attention. “Probably too much screen time yesterday. Messed with my sleep.”

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just watches me in that quiet way he has when he’s not sure what he’s seeing. Then he nods, slowly, deliberately, like he’s filing the moment away for future reference.

I stab a piece of toast with my fork and move it around the plate, pretending I might eat it. But I don’t. I can’t. The nausea is still there, coiled low and hot and unavoidable. The lie stretches a little further, gaining shape and texture, weaving itself into the fabric of the morning. It sits between us like a silent presence, unspoken but felt. And still, I smile. I summon a version of myself who’s fine, who’s tired but functional, who isn’t holding onto the kind of secret that could rewrite everything. Still, I pretend. And maybe that’s the most terrifying part of all, that somehow, even as my world tilts beneath me, I can still wear this mask so well.

Still pretend. Still keep this one thing, this massive, heart-pounding, life-altering thing, to myself. For now. Because telling him now, while we’re still tangled in algorithms and sabotage and legal chaos, feels impossible. It’s not that I don’t trust him. I do. More than anyone. But the thought of seeing that flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, even for a second, terrifies me. I need to hold onto the version of us that’s still intact, still steady, still learning how to breathe again after the storm.

The truth is, I don’t even know how I feel yet. It’s not that I’m unhappy. I’m just... overwhelmed. I didn’t plan for this, didn’t expect it, didn’t see it coming. And yet, beneath the panic, beneath the uncertainty and the ache of everything unraveling around us, there’s a tiny flicker of something else. Hope.

A quiet, trembling kind of awe. The idea that something new, something impossibly small and full of potential, is already growing inside me. I don’t know if I’m ready for it. I don’t know what this will mean for me, for us, for the future we’ve barely had time to imagine. But I do know I care. Fiercely. Already. I tell myself I’ll tell him later. When I have a plan. When I’ve wrapped my head around it. When the nausea fades and the timing doesn’t feel like a bomb waiting to detonate.

Maybe in a few days. Maybe after we’ve had one quiet evening that doesn’t involve crisis management or surprise wedding revelations. Maybe when I can look him in the eye and not feel like I’m handing him an entirely new future without warning. But not today. Today, I need the lie. I need the quiet, and I need just a little more time.

12

GRAYSON

Something’s off. It’s not dramatic. Not obvious. If I didn’t know Margot so well, if I hadn’t spent the last several years watching her pull apart patterns and predict human behavior better than most psychologists, I might’ve missed it. But I know her. And this version of her? It’s not the Margot who lectures me for using too much toothpaste or who refills the coffee filter like it’s a sacred ritual.

It starts with breakfast. She barely touches her food, pushes things around her plate like a chess match she doesn’t want to win. I try not to make a thing of it, God knows she hates being hovered over, but I can’t shake the feeling that she’s here, but not really here.

After breakfast, we attempt to clean up. I’m rinsing out the pan while she dries the mugs, and her movements are slower than usual. Distracted. Like her brain’s on a different frequency.

“You okay?” I ask, casually, not looking up.

“Fine,” she says. Quick. Too quick. Her towel squeaks over the ceramic, then stills. “Just tired.”

That’s the third time she’s said that in two days. Margot doesn’t repeat herself unless she’s covering something up.

Later, we try to go for a walk to stretch our legs. It’s chilly outside, a damp breeze threading through the pines. She bundles in her hoodie and folds her arms across her chest like she’s bracing against something more than the cold.

Normally, she walks beside me, keeping pace, nudging me when I say something annoying. Today, she stays a step ahead or a step behind. Never beside. When I point out a squirrel doing something vaguely ridiculous on the branch above us, she gives a half-smile, no comment. At one point, I stop walking entirely and call her name.

She turns slowly. “What?”

I shrug. “Just making sure you still like me.”

That gets me a real smile. Brief. But it’s there. “Don’t push it.”

We head back to the cabin and settle into the usual rhythm, her at the table pretending to work, me trying not to get in the way. But every few minutes, I glance at her. She keeps shifting in her seat. She gets up to make tea, doesn’t drink it. Fiddles with her laptop cord. Runs her fingers through her hair like she’s trying to erase a thought she can’t say out loud. And she’s not looking at me. Not the way she usually does. Like she’s searching. Like she’s trying to understand me.

I don’t know what it is, but I know Margot. And I know this isn’t just about the algorithm or the press or even the mess we’re cleaning up from Eleanor. It’s something else. Something she hasn’t told me yet, and the weirdest part? It doesn’t feel like betrayal. It feels like fear. Whatever it is… she’s scared. And I don’t know how to ask without scaring her more.

So I do what I always do when I don’t know how to fix it. I stay close. I wash the dishes. I fold the blanket she left on the couch. I make her laugh when I can. I pretend not to notice when she flinches at smells or steps out onto the porch for air. I let her keep her secrets., but that doesn’t mean I won’t push a little.

Later, as we’re both on the couch, her scrolling through lines of code like she’s trying to find salvation in syntax, me pretending to care about the latest investor memo, I catch her glancing at me and not saying anything.

“Want to talk about whatever’s turning your brain into soup?” I ask, glancing at her over the edge of my screen.

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