Page 4 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

4

GRAYSON

You can always feel the shift before the headlines hit. It starts with silence. Not the kind that’s peaceful, but the brittle, waiting kind. The kind that comes just before impact.

By the time I step into the office Monday morning, the hush is palpable. Olivia doesn’t meet my eyes when she hands over the latest media roundup. Priya’s pacing, her earbuds in, mouthing something like a prayer or a curse. And the front desk assistant looks like she’s bracing for impact.

“Good morning,” I say out loud, as if volume might shift the mood.

Margot is already in the war room, our glass-walled conference space turned command center. She’s standing at the head of the table, surrounded by half-drunk coffee cups, an open laptop, and a dozen printed articles spread like a crime scene. Her hair is up, sharp and flawless.

“Morning,” she says without looking at me.

The algorithm that had brought us applause just days ago is now being questioned everywhere:Too accurate. Emotionally invasive. Relationship spoilers.One headline reads:When the Algorithm Knows You Better Than You Know Yourself—And That’s the Problem.

We’ve lost three high-profile clients already. One, Marissa Hale, a luxury wedding planner in L.A., canceled her contract publicly on Instagram Live.

“I don’t want my soulmate chosen by a formula,” she’d said, holding her teacup like a dagger. “Love should surprise you, not diagnose you.”

Another, Senator Grant’s daughter, pulled out of the partnership pilot, citing “unsettling overlap” with a man she “wasn’t emotionally prepared to see herself mirrored in.”

Even our most loyal beta user, Sean Halbridge, the one who gave us glowing feedback just weeks ago, requested to have his data deleted after what he called a “frightening emotional correlation” with someone he hadn’t spoken to in years.

I scroll through the backlash in silence, jaw tight.

Margot finally looks up. Her eyes are wild beneath the calm. “They don’t understand it,” she says, voice clipped. “They’re scared of it because it works.”

I move closer, slowly, until we’re facing each other. “Or maybe it works in a way people didn’t ask for. You said this was about helping people find real connection. But right now, they feel exposed. And that matters.”

Her chin lifts. “I’m not pulling it back.”

“I’m not asking you to,” I say. “But this—this isn’t just code. It’s people. People who weren’t ready to meet themselves in someone else’s eyes.”

The tension between us sharpens. We’ve fought before. But not like this.

“You always wanted this to be warm and fuzzy,” she says bitterly. “Stories and sparks. But I built it to be right.”

“And I wanted it to be human,” I snap. “Because if we forget that, then what the hell are we even doing?”

She pulls in a breath, shaky and shallow. Her fingers twitch at her sides. She’s still standing, one hand planted firmly on the conference table like she’s holding herself up with sheer determination. She’s wearing a deep emerald-green blouse tucked into high-waisted black trousers, tailored, powerful, deliberate. The kind of outfit meant to send a message: control. But her eyes tell a different story. There’s a faint tremble at the corner of her mouth she can’t quite mask, and I know her well enough to recognize the fracture behind the steel. Her other hand slides toward a nearby chair, but she doesn’t sit. She’s too wired, too alert. Too afraid that stillness might crack her open.

Around us, the room holds its breath. Priya has stopped pacing, standing just outside the door, her arms folded tight, her face unreadable. Olivia’s in the corner with her tablet clutched like a lifeline, pretending to read a document while sneaking glances toward us. No one else dares interrupt.

And me? I can’t stop watching her. Even now. Even in this moment when we’re standing on the edge of something breaking. She looks like a storm—poised and dangerous and impossibly beautiful. But storms don’t bend. They break. And I don’t know if she even realizes how close she is to doing just that. For a moment, I think she might cry. But Margot doesn’t cry. She calculates. And right now, I can see her running the equations in her head, desperate to solve this with logic.

I take a step back, not because I want to put distance between us, but because I need her to see me clearly—unclouded by frustration or defensiveness.

“I’m here,” I say, my voice low but firm. “But I can’t just stand by and watch you pretend none of this matters. I won’t defend something that’s unraveling just to protect your pride.”

Her jaw tightens. For a second, I think she’s going to lash out or argue. But she doesn’t. Not immediately. She stares past me, her eyes fixed on some point beyond the glass walls, where the city hums in cold, indifferent motion. And when she finally speaks, her voice is controlled, too controlled, but I hear the fracture beneath it. I hear the weight of everything she’s carrying pressed into two quiet, defiant words.

“I’ll fix it.”

She looks down at the table, at the headlines, the fear, the press cycle that’s turned from adoration to suspicion overnight. And I watch her shoulders tense like she’s trying to hold the entire company together with nothing but willpower.

I want to pull her in, tell her it’ll pass. That people are fickle, and this is just a storm. But the truth is, I don’t know that. And neither does she.

So I leave her with the data and the noise and the unraveling faith, slipping out of the war room as quietly as I came in. The moment the glass door clicks shut behind me, the hum of the city rushes back in like static, car horns below, distant sirens, the soft clatter of heels on polished floors.

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