Page 20 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

He hangs up before I can respond. I glance over at Margot. She’s staring out the window like she might see the answers written in the trees. Her shoulders shake slightly, and when she turns to face me, there’s more in her eyes than just stress. There’s something she’s not saying. Something else.

Vivian Carlisle doesn’t even let me finish my pitch before she cuts in with a sigh so sharp it feels like a slap. "Grayson, I’ve been in this game a long time. You don’t need to feed me your company line. Just tell me why I shouldn’t pull my portfolio out before the whole thing collapses."

I pinch the bridge of my nose and force a smile into my voice. "Because this isn’t the collapse. It’s turbulence. And turbulence only means you tighten your seatbelt, not jump out of the plane."

There’s a pause. Then a very dry, "Cute metaphor. Still doesn’t inspire confidence."

I pace the floor of the cabin, phone pressed to my ear, eyes on the stack of logs I dropped by the fireplace earlier. "Vivian, listen. I know what the headlines are saying. But the algorithm’s foundation is intact. We’ve identified inconsistencies and are actively isolating the source. And most importantly? Margot and I are still leading this. You trusted us once. You were right to."

She doesn’t reply immediately. And then: "You’ve got forty-eight hours to prove you’re still worth the risk."

Click. Call ended. I stare at the phone, resisting the urge to throw it into the fire.

Julian Ross is next. He answers on the third ring. "Didn’t expect to hear from you personally, King."

"Figured it’d mean more than a press release. Or a generic PR intern with a script."

Julian snorts. "You’re damn right it does. So, what’s the pitch? Talk fast, I’ve got a board call in ten minutes and a bourbon aging in my glass."

“Neither of those sounds nearly as fun as listening to me beg for your continued loyalty.”

“You begging? That I gotta hear.”

“Let’s call it a strong, persuasive appeal. Look, I know how it looks from the outside. But Margot and I are on this. The algorithm is being audited in-house. We already found irregularities and are tracing the source. This isn’t structural, it’s sabotage.”

“That’s convenient.”

“It’s also true.” I pause. “You’ve worked with us from the beginning. You know what we’ve built. Don’t jump just because someone’s yelling ‘iceberg’ without seeing the whole damn ship.”

He chuckles, a low sound. “You always did like your dramatic metaphors. Titanic references, huh? Bold strategy.”

“I didn’t say we’re sinking.”

“No, but you’re handing out life jackets.”

“I’m asking you to trust me. One more time.”

There’s a pause. I can hear him exhale.

“I’ll give you seventy-two hours. That’s it. And if I see another headline with your faces on it? I’ll be the one writing the last one.”

“Fair.”

Click. I let out a long breath and toss the phone on the couch like it personally betrayed me. I let out a long breath and toss the phone on the couch. When I turn around, Margot is standing in the doorway, arms folded, a look on her face that reads equal parts worry and admiration.

“Well?” she asks.

“They’re not running. Yet.”

She exhales. “That’s something.”

Then, out of nowhere, Margot mutters, "God, I would kill for a pickle wrapped in prosciutto. With, like, a drizzle of maple syrup."

I blink. "I’m sorry, what did you just say?"

She waves it off, like the words escaped without her permission. "Nothing. Don’t judge me. It just popped into my head."

"No, no. I’m not judging. I’m just... mentally cataloging that moment for future investigation."

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