Page 37 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

“Do you think they’ll slip and accidentally reveal the gender?” he asks as the elevator dings.

I arch a brow. “You promised you didn’t want to know.”

“I don’t. But also... I kind of do. I mean, come on. If we’re having a mini you, I need time to emotionally prepare for someone who can out-argue me in diapers.”

“If it’s a mini you, we’ll need a house with reinforced furniture and a dedicated ‘I told you so’ jar,” I fire back.

Grayson laughs. “Either way, this kid’s going to be terrifying in the best possible way.”

“And very well-dressed,” I add. “Because I already bookmarked six gender-neutral onesie boutiques. I’m nothing if not committed.” The car is already waiting, sleek and quiet, and he opens the door for me like it’s still our first date.

The clinic is on the Upper East Side, tucked between a wine bar and a bookstore with a corgi in the window. Inside, it smells like lavender and wealth. There are glossy magazines fanned out on the table, a fiddle-leaf fig in the corner that looks better than most of my hair days, and a receptionist who offers me sparkling water with a lemon wedge.

I’m halfway through filling out the forms when Grayson nudges me.

“Margot,” he whispers, “Isn’t that Senator Mallory?”

I glance up, and oh god, it is. Senator Claudia Mallory, currently spearheading a tech regulation bill that could gut half the matchmaking industry if it passes, is sitting three chairs down. ReadingTown & Countrylike she’s not a walking policy grenade. She looks up. Our eyes meet. And then she smiles.

“Margot Evans?” she says brightly, rising with the grace of a woman who filibustered in heels. “How serendipitous. I didn’t have you pegged as someone who needed... this kind of visit.”

Grayson stiffens beside me, his politician-charm smile glued firmly in place.

“Oh,” I say, already sweating. “Well, you know. Just here for moral support. A friend. Very pregnant. Definitely not me."

“I see,” Senator Mallory says, her gaze sweeping down to my very definitely maternity-approved dress and the clipboard with my name on it. “And your... friend?”

Grayson doesn’t miss a beat. “She’s shy. Very private. Doesn’t like paperwork.”

“Mm. Understandable. And are you often the moral support in matching floral socks and a Dior tote?”

I make a strangled noise that might be laughter, or panic.

“We like to color coordinate for our... business brand cohesion,” I say. “Very startup of us.”

She tilts her head like a hawk eyeing a particularly nervous mouse. “I always thoughtPerfectly Matchedran on data and discretion. Fascinating to see such... hands-on involvement.”

Grayson clears his throat. “It’s a Tuesday. We try to make them interesting.”

Thankfully, the nurse appears right then, calling my name.

“That’s us!” I practically yell, grabbing Grayson’s arm and yanking him toward the hallway.

“Pleasure seeing you, Senator,” Grayson calls politely over his shoulder.

“Likewise,” she says. “Do tell your friend congratulations.”

I don’t look back, because if I do, I’m ninety percent sure she’ll be scanning my retinas and tracking my blood pressure in real time. Grayson leans close as we walk.

“We are so bad at lying.”

“You think she bought it?” I whisper.

“She’s a senator,” he whispers back. “She probably has three different surveillance apps tracking our wombs.”

I snort-laugh and the tech gives us a curious glance. Nothing to see here.Just a couple building an empire, hiding a baby, dodging federal oversight, and trying to plan a real wedding after drunkenly tying the knot in Las Vegas, because obviously, we like to keep things simple around here.Totally normal Tuesday.

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