Page 26 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

"So what's the next move, boss?"

I snort. "Oh, now I'm the boss again?"

"You were always the boss. I just pretend it’s a co-CEO situation."

I shake my head, but I can’t stop the small smile that slips out. "We need to cut her off. Find out how she’s getting to them and block it. I want a trace on every outgoing client message. Every consultation Natalia’s team sets up, we flag it, we counter it."

"Should we call Cassian?"

"Not yet," I say. "Let’s fix it ourselves first. He doesn’t need to know how messy this has gotten."

"You think we can win this round?"

I meet his eyes. "I think if we go down, we go down fighting. But no, she’s not beating us. Not on my watch."

Still, despite everything, the corner of my mouth lifts. Because if I’ve learned anything from the chaos of the last few weeks, it’s this: Even in the middle of a storm, I don’t back down.

Grayson finishes his coffee and glances toward the narrow windows. "We’re out of basically everything."

"Define everything," I say.

"I saw a lone can of chickpeas and one very judgmental onion."

I groan, drawing out the sound as dramatically as I can manage. "Fine. Groceries it is. But if the town store only has canned lima beans and powdered soup mix again, we’re coming back with regrets."

Grayson laughs and stands with a long stretch, his muscles flexing under his t-shirt as he reaches for the keys hanging by the door. He grabs them with a quiet jingle, then glances back at me with a familiar spark in his eyes. "Want to come with me?"

I hesitate, casting one more look at the laptop still glowing with unanswered messages and quiet chaos. The screen is a battlefield, and walking away from it feels wrong. But sitting in it any longer feels worse. Maybe what I need isn’t another half-hour buried in digital fires. Maybe what I need is something as mundane as a grocery run with the man I love.

I slide on my coat, tugging the zipper up slowly, savoring the simple rhythm of the motion. "Let’s go," I say. "I’m craving normal. Whatever that even means anymore."

He grins, that boyish, infuriating grin that makes my chest ache in the best way. "Cabin fever finally winning?"

"Something like that," I say with a sigh. "Or maybe I just need to be somewhere that doesn’t have a signal."

We step outside, the wooden porch creaking beneath our feet as we walk in sync down the steps. The wind tugs gently at my hair as I wrap my arm through his. The sunlight cuts through the morning haze, and for a moment, I pretend we’re just another couple running errands.

The war isn’t over. But for the next hour, we’ll pretend we’re untouched by it. We'll be just two people in love, driving toward something simple, even if it only lasts as long as a grocery list.

18

GRAYSON

We’re not gone more than an hour. Just long enough to stock up on groceries, argue about which peanut butter is best (she’s wrong, by the way), and almost forget that we’re fugitives from both public scrutiny and a rival matchmaking empire.

The second we pull into the clearing in front of the cabin, I know something’s off. There’s a car. An actual car. Parked right in front of the cabin. Black. Sleek. Definitely not part of the rustic wilderness charm. Margot’s already halfway out of the car when she sees it. "Please tell me that’s a hallucination brought on by pregnancy hormones."

"If it is," I say, grabbing the groceries from the backseat, "we’re sharing the delusion."

She bolts up the porch stairs ahead of me, fumbling with the keys. The door creaks open, and then we both freeze.

"Surprise!"

Standing in the middle of the living room like she owns the place is Genevieve Clarke, Margot’s college roommate turned fashion PR queen, chaos goblin, and walking headline magnet. She’s tall, commanding, dressed in a vintage camel trench that probably costs more than our monthly server budget. Her platinum hair is swept into a chic low bun, and she’s wearing impossibly high boots for someone who supposedly took a road trip into the woods. She moves like she’s strutting across a runway instead of a creaky cabin floor, spinning slowly to take in the space as if mentally redecorating it.

"Gen?" Margot’s voice pitches into a register I haven’t heard since the time we walked in on Olivia stress-crying into a $900 bottle of wine. "What are you doing here?"

"Road trip! Didn’t want my favorite couple to be totally alone while the media burns down around you. And you didn’t answer your texts. So I figured... pop in!"

---