Page 45 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

“Exactly. We vet her. Publicly. Make her go through the same rigorous screening we’d apply to any client. Interviews, psychological evaluation, background compatibility audit.”

“She’ll hate it.”

“She’ll also be too proud to back down. And if she passes? We control the story. We match her with someone who won’t tolerate her BS and let the chaos play out under our roof instead of the national spotlight.”

I nod slowly. “It’s high-risk.”

Margot’s grin is all teeth. “So was marrying me in Vegas.”

“Point taken.”

I lean back in my chair, the weight of the moment shifting into something almost exhilarating.

“We leak it first,” I say. “Control the timing. Frame it as an exclusive—Senator Mallory entrusts Perfectly Matched with the most powerful pairing in politics. Make her sound visionary, not manipulative.”

“And if she balks?”

“We remind her who has the better algorithm—and who’s pregnant with the future of matchmaking.”

Margot raises her protein bar like a toast. “To weaponized love.”

“To survival,” I reply, clinking my coffee cup against it.

And just like that, we go to war, with a smile.

***

By the time Olivia steps into the office, we’ve already outlined the bones of what we’re calling Operation Ice Queen. She reads our notes, raises one eyebrow so high it nearly hits her hairline, and then sits down without a word.

“Senator Mallory wants to be matched?” she finally asks.

“Wants is generous,” Margot mutters. “She threatened to make our unborn child front-page news unless we deliver her a soulmate.”

Olivia scrolls through the intake form mock-up I’ve drafted. “You realize she’ll try to control every part of the narrative. She’ll want veto power on matches, screening questions, probably even wardrobe notes for first dates.”

“She can want whatever she likes,” I say. “She gets the same onboarding experience as any other elite client. No more, no less.”

Margot taps her notepad. “We’ll start with an interview. On camera. Friendly, transparent. Let the world see that she came to us because she believes in the power of what we’ve built. Not because she’s pulling political strings.”

“Spin it as strategy, not scandal,” Olivia nods.

“And while the public watches,” I add, “we start compiling possible matches. The kind of men who won’t be afraid to challenge her, outwit her, or, God help them, keep up.”

Olivia smirks. “Sounds like we’re recruiting for a high-stakes dating version of Gladiator.”

Margot grins. “Exactly.”

We sit there, the three of us, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling glass and quiet tension. It should feel terrifying. Instead, it feels like control. Because if Mallory wants to play this game, she’ll have to play by our rules.

The first step? A public-facing compatibility consultation. We schedule a live-streamed-Q&A with Mallory to "reveal her vision for modern power couples." Olivia books the network, I draft the talking points, and Margot coordinates the aesthetics, down to the branded mugs and camera angles that make Mallory’s cheekbones pop.

The second step? Internal vetting. We send Mallory our twenty-page intake packet, disguised as a curated onboarding portfolio. Psychometrics, emotional benchmarks, political philosophy rubrics, she sends it back within an hour, annotated. In red pen.

“She corrected our grammar,” Margot mutters. “And she drew arrows linking trust issues to former campaign donors.”

“Efficient,” Olivia deadpans.

The third step is the part no one sees. I work late into the night running compatibility algorithms, narrowing the candidate list to six men with the brains, backbone, and emotional stamina to survive dinner with Mallory. One’s a Navy lawyer turned humanitarian. Another is a French AI ethicist with a scandalous smile and zero tolerance for bullshit.

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