Page 27 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

She waves a hand like that explains everything, stepping casually toward the small kitchen like she lives here. Her nails are blood-red, immaculately shaped, her sunglasses still perched like a crown atop her head. Every inch of her is curated, her perfume leaves a whisper of bergamot and drama wherever she walks, her cashmere scarf tossed over her shoulder like she’s arriving at a fashion week party rather than crashing a hideout.

I lower the bags slowly. "How did you even find us?"

She grins. "Please. I taught you both how to stalk a date in under six clicks."

Margot groans, already scanning the cabin for any and all pregnancy evidence. "Oh god, oh god…”

I nudge her. "Notebook."

"Bedroom," she whispers, already darting toward the hallway. I intercept Gen with a very strategic, very awkward half-hug.

"You want a drink? Coffee? Bourbon? Distraction?"

"I want tea," she says. "And details. Preferably with scandal."

While I keep her busy with the kettle and a wildly embellished story about our neighbor who thinks we’re reclusive movie stars, Margot sneaks back, subtly clutching the incriminating notebook, now firmly shut, but there's a pale tension in her face that wasn’t there before. She doesn’t say anything, but I can tell from the way she won’t meet my eyes that it was open when she found it. Open long enough for someone to read it. Long enough for Genevieve to maybe piece something together.

My stomach tightens. Genevieve is smart, too smart, and always knows more than she lets on. If she saw even a glimpse, there’s a real chance she already knows. And worse, if she knows, she might tell. Not because she’s cruel, but because she loves the chaos. Because a leak, even an accidental one, would be just her style.

We’ll have to watch her. We survive. Barely. Though I don’t miss the way Genevieve’s eyes keep sliding toward me while I pour the tea. Margot sees it too, her eyebrows arch just slightly as she hands over a spoon like she’s considering using it as a warning weapon.

"Gen," Margot says sweetly, "do you want sugar? Or just to continue undressing my fiancé with your eyes?"

Genevieve doesn’t miss a beat. "Oh, please. If I wanted him, I would've snatched him back in Barcelona."

"And yet," Margot says, smiling with far too many teeth, "he mysteriously survived."

I raise both hands in surrender. "I feel like I should step outside until you two finish marking territory."

"Don’t flatter yourself," they say in unison.

Margot flashes me a look over her shoulder, smug and slightly exasperated. It says: she may be dramatic, but she's not getting you. And I’d be lying if I didn’t enjoy every second of it.

Gen eventually kicks off her boots, onto the coffee table, of course, and sinks into the couch like a queen reclaiming her throne. She starts rearranging the throw pillows with practiced ease, then pulls out her phone like she’s preparing to live-blog the entire afternoon.

"By the way," she says, scrolling with one finger, "did you hear about that disaster over atPulseMatch? Their algorithm matched a guy with both his ex and his therapist. At the same time."

Margot nearly chokes on her tea. "You’re kidding."

"I wish I were. It’s everywhere. Poor guy’s now doing a podcast tour about ‘dating trauma in the digital age.’ Honestly, I’m jealous I didn’t think of it first."

I glance at Margot as she sinks into the chair opposite Gen, trying not to smile. "Is this what passes for PR gossip these days?"

Gen shrugs. "Please. You two are the main event. Everyone else is just filler. I mean, one leak about a hidden pregnancy and half the internet will implode."

Margot’s laugh sounds a little too forced. I slide my hand onto her knee. Just a little pressure. Just a reminder, we’re okay. For now. I glance at Margot over the rim of my mug. Her hair’s a mess, her cheeks are flushed from the panic, and she’s trying so hard not to laugh. We are hanging by a thread, but we’re hanging on.

Gen sets her tea down on the coffee table, not bothering with a coaster. "Also, rumor has it that HeartBridge is testing out a celebrity matchmaking feature, like actual A-listers in their beta tier. Supposedly, they matched an Oscar-nominated actress with a crypto CEO, and she ghosted him before the second date. I give it two weeks before they implode."

Margot rolls her eyes but leans forward. "Please tell me you have receipts."

"Screenshots and receipts, darling," Gen says smugly, tapping her temple. "And you didn’t hear it from me, but I know someone on their algorithm dev team. Their compatibility tiers are nonsense. Pure vibes and a dash of astrology."

"So... basically TikTok with a sign-up form," I mutter.

"Exactly!" Gen beams. "But packaged as ‘scientific love optimization.’ Honestly, if you two weren’t buried in scandal, I’d tell you to sue them for brand defamation."

Margot laughs, this time with more ease, as she settles deeper into the chair. The tension hasn’t disappeared, not completely, but it’s softened, blurred around the edges by tea and gossip and the bizarre comfort of chaos we didn’t start for once.

---