Page 57 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

She nods. “Maybe.”

But the smile she tries, and fails, to suppress tells him what he already knows.

***

The Met Gala for Modern Influence is held on the rooftop of the Neue Galerie, an art-deco jewel box perched above Central Park. Fairy lights snake along the railings, live piano hums from beneath the cocktail chatter, and waiters in white jackets glide between donors and dignitaries like chess pieces.

Senator Claudia Mallory arrives in black velvet, her neckline sharp, her heels lethal. Her diamond cuff catches the light like a signal flare. Every inch of her is curated, powerful, undeniable.

Étienne Marcelle is waiting near the champagne fountain. He’s in a perfectly cut tuxedo, casually undone bowtie resting at his collar. He hands her a glass without speaking.

“You clean up well,” she says, accepting it.

“I do everything well,” he murmurs, eyes locked on hers.

They move through the room like opposing royalty. When a tech billionaire tries to interrupt their conversation to pitch a blockchain-backed political platform, Mallory’s smile could slice glass. Étienne simply says, “We’ll have to circle back.”

She watches him with something resembling amusement. “Do you always rescue women from conversations they could destroy themselves?”

“I’m not rescuing,” he says. “I’m redirecting firepower.”

Later, on the balcony, she leans against the railing as city lights flicker below. He joins her silently.

“You study power,” she says.

“I study people who think they don’t need anyone,” he replies. “They always fascinate me most.”

She turns her head, brows lifted. “And you think that’s me?”

“I think you’re extraordinary,” he says. “And also completely human.”

She doesn’t reply, but she doesn’t walk away either. When he kisses her hand at the end of the night, she holds his gaze for a beat too long.

“You’re dangerous,” she says softly.

“So are you,” he replies.

And she doesn’t correct him.

***

Back at Perfectly Matched, I close my laptop and lean back in my chair. Outside, the skyline is dipped in gold and navy. The soft glow of the Empire State Building flickers in the distance. Inside, the air hums with readiness. Mason and Alexandra are inching closer. Mallory might be cracking. And me? I’m five days from everything changing.

Grayson enters without knocking, two mugs of chamomile tea in hand, and that half-smile that still manages to undo me.

“Wedding CEO,” he says, setting the mug beside me. “Looking very type-A and stunning.”

I smirk. “How do you feel about becoming Mr. Evans-King?”

He perches on the arm of my chair and leans in. “I feel like I’m getting away with something.”

I sip the tea. “We’re really doing this.”

“We already are,” he says, kissing my temple.

And for a moment, in the middle of a thousand moving pieces, I let it all go, because sometimes, building a life doesn’t feel like climbing a mountain. Sometimes it feels like finally coming home.

32

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