Page 5 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

I take the elevator down alone, my reflection fractured across the mirrored walls. Outside, New York is a cold blur of movement. Pale sunlight filters through the skyscrapers like diluted gold, casting long, stretched shadows along Fifth Avenue. Pedestrians move fast, phones pressed to ears, coffee in hand, wrapped in coats that look expensive and expressions that look exhausted. The city is indifferent. But that’s the thing about New York, it doesn’t care who you are. It just keeps going.

I walk two blocks to clear my head. The wind slices through my jacket like a warning, and I don’t bother to pull it tighter. Somewhere, a street saxophonist plays a bluesy riff that sounds like heartbreak with a rhythm. A couple laughs outside a bakery window. A cyclist nearly barrels into a cab. The world spins on. Oblivious.

I duck into a corner deli I’ve stopped by a hundred times before, Manny’s on 43rd, wedged between a shoe repair shop and a dry cleaner. The bell over the door jingles with the same slightly off-key chime it always has. It smells like garlic, pastrami, and fresh rye, like something solid in a day full of unraveling. Manny himself is behind the counter, bald head shining under the fluorescent lights, slicing salami with the precision of a surgeon and the indifference of someone who’s been doing it for fifty years.

"You look like someone kicked your puppy," he says without looking up.

"Rough morning," I reply.

He raises an eyebrow. "Let me guess, tech nonsense? Or girl trouble? Or both?"

"Both," I mutter, leaning against the counter. "One might’ve caused the other."

Manny grunts like that tracks. "Sandwich?"

"Turkey on rye. Extra mustard."

He starts building it with fast, practiced movements. "Still working on that love app thing?"

"Perfectly Matched," I correct him, though there’s no bite to it.

"Right, right. All those ads with smiling people who look like they’ve never had a real argument in their lives."

I huff a laugh. "Hey, you wanna try the new version? Could find your soulmate."

Manny pauses, holding a pickle slice in midair. "Grayson, I’ve been married to the same woman for thirty-eight years. If your algorithm tells me I could’ve done better, I’m burning your office down."

I grin despite myself. "Fair."

He wraps the sandwich and hands it over like a peace offering. "No algorithm beats knowing when to shut up and bring home cannoli. Just saying."

"Words to live by."

He winks. "Go fix whatever you broke. And tell that sharp-looking fiancée of yours she scares me in a good way."

"Yeah," I say, pocketing the change. "Me too."

And I’m stuck between wanting to turn around and go back to her, and needing to give her space to fall apart or pull it together in her own way. Because love isn’t just proximity. It’s knowing when to step back and when to hold steady. And right now, I need to trust her enough to let her face this storm alone, even if everything in me wants to run straight back into the fire.

5

MARGOT

We’re back at the penthouse by the time it all boils over. The city below is a haze of motion and light, but inside these walls, everything feels too still. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that comes right before someone says something they can’t take back.

I’m standing near the floor-to-ceiling windows, my arms crossed tightly over my chest, watching the blur of headlights move down Fifth like veins in a restless beast. I haven’t changed out of my work clothes. I’m still in the same ivory blouse and navy trousers I wore to today’s investor call, creases at the elbows, lipstick worn off, hair pinned back but fraying at the edges. My heels are off, abandoned by the doorway, but I haven’t moved far. I’m pacing in small, agitated circles, too restless to sit, too charged to stay still.

When I hear the front door unlock, I move toward it, fast at first, then slower as he steps inside. There’s a second where I almost say something, almost reach for him, but I stop short, words stuck behind pride and the ache of everything that’s unraveling. I hover just a few feet away, arms still crossed, jaw tight, waiting for him to meet me halfway. But he doesn't. Not yet. And it hurts more than I want to admit. Because underneath all my frustration, beneath the anger and exhaustion, is the ache of missing him, even when he’s right in front of me.

I hate that we’re fighting. I hate that his voice feels like distance instead of comfort. But mostly, I hate that he’s right, that I’ve buried myself so deeply in code and control I forgot what it’s like to lean on someone. On him. And still, even now, even with tension tightening between us like a wire, I can’t help but notice the way his black crew neck clings to the curve of his shoulders, the way his blonde hair catches the light in soft gold waves. He looks like something out of a dream I’ve tried not to have too often, strong, grounded, and infuriatingly handsome. It would be easier if I could stop wanting him when I’m this angry. If my body didn’t still hum at the memory of his hands, the steadiness of his presence. But he’s always been the contradiction I couldn’t quit, tenderness and fire, wrapped in steel.

Grayson tosses his keys onto the kitchen counter. The sound is louder than it should be. Sharp. Final.

“Want to talk about it?” he asks, not looking at me.

“About which part?” I fire back. “The part where our clients are dropping like flies, or the part where the media thinks I’m one glitch away from a God complex?”

He exhales and runs a hand through his hair. He’s wearing dark jeans and a black crew neck, simple and clean, effortless, the kind of understated confidence that always draws attention without asking for it. “You can’t code your way out of this, Margot. You can’t data-clean emotional fallout.”

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