Page 50 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

We move like a machine after that, tight, practiced, relentless. Olivia takes lead on press coordination while I pull up side-by-side footage comparisons to include in the official response. The contrast is staggering. Our footage is crisp, original, personal. Theirs is cold, rehearsed, and clearly spliced.

“God, they even mimicked our onboarding language,” Margot mutters, scrolling through PulseMatch’s promo site. “‘Tailored human chemistry with elite data flow’? That’s lifted straight from our legacy deck.”

I move closer, eyes scanning the lines. “And the UI in that demo video looks eerily close to ours pre-update. They’re using outdated concepts and calling it next-gen.”

Olivia spins her tablet toward us. “Legal’s confirming breach. If they touched our internal code, it opens them up to litigation beyond IP violation. This could bury them.”

Margot crosses her arms, chin tilted. “I don’t want to just bury them. I want them publicly dismantled. Their credibility shot.”

“Then we win the narrative,” I say, already typing. “We don’t just react, we educate. Comparison post. Full transparency reel. A breakdown of what makes our algorithm trustworthy.”

“Real stories,” Olivia adds. “Put Mason and Alexandra front and center. Have them speak on authenticity, what it meant to be matched by us. Not gamified, not scraped from search data.”

Margot meets my eyes. “You think they’ll go for it?”

“Mason’s already drafting a speech,” I say. “And Alexandra just asked if she can rewrite her quote. Apparently, the one they fabricated was ‘embarrassingly sentimental.’”

Margot lets out a laugh, short, sharp, exactly what we all needed to hear, and just like that, the tension shifts. Not gone. But focused. Weaponized.Perfectly Matcheddoesn’t just defend itself. We go to war in heels and headlines.

***

It’s late when we finally make it home. The city has gone soft and quiet outside our windows, the glow of headlights and the hush of distant horns the only signs that time hasn’t stopped.

Margot’s in the bathroom when I walk in. Her hair’s pinned up messily, and she’s standing in just a silk robe, steam curling around her from the shower she just stepped out of. She turns, and the look in her eyes stops me cold. Not fire. Not frustration. Something quieter. Deeper.

“I know today was hell,” she says, her voice low. “But can we stop pretending we’re okay just because we fixed it?”

I cross the room in two strides. “We’re not pretending.”

My hands are on her waist, her robe parting under my touch. Her skin is still warm from the water, her pulse thrumming just beneath the surface.

“You’re everything to me,” I whisper against her collarbone. “When everything else is noise, you’re what I choose. Every time.”

She slides her hands under my shirt, dragging it up and over my head before pulling me close.

“You promise?” she asks, her voice breaking on the edges.

I answer with my mouth, kissing her like it’s the first time, like it’s the last, like every second we’ve stolen from the world matters more than anything that could ever try to take it.

We fall onto the bed, limbs tangled, mouths desperate. Her robe slips off completely, and I trail kisses down her stomach, pausing over the slight swell there that already feels like home.

“Still mad about the orchids?” I murmur.

She laughs, breathless. “I might cry if you bring them up again.”

“Noted.”

I sink into her slowly, thrusting my cock deep into her. Our bodies are moving together like we’re writing a language only we understand. Her moans curl around my name. My fingers lace with hers against the sheets, and when she finally falls apart beneath me, eyes locked on mine, I swear it’s the most honest thing I’ve ever seen. I grind against her clit slowly at first, increasing the speed as we move together in unison. It doesn’t take us long to go other the edge. Afterward, she rests her head on my chest, her breathing steady, her fingers tracing lazy circles over my ribs.

“I love you,” she says.

I kiss her temple. “I know.”

Because love isn’t just something we say. It’s this, how we survive, how we fight, how we come back to each other, every damn time.

29

MARGOT

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