Page 74 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

“We did win. We won against 47 unlabeled parts and four contradicting diagrams.”

“And mild emotional damage,” I add. “Don’t forget that.”

He nudges me with his foot. “I’m framing this moment. Mentally. This is the first piece of furniture our daughter will ever see.”

I go quiet at that. Something warm expands in my chest. “She’s going to know how much we love her before she even takes her first breath.”

Grayson’s eyes soften. “She already does.”

***

Later, I stretch out on the couch with a cold lemonade while Grayson wipes down the crib with a look of exhausted pride.

“We did it,” he says, triumphant. “No extra screws.”

“Which, depending on your philosophy, is either very impressive or very concerning.”

He leans over, presses a kiss to my temple, and murmurs, “Do you think she’ll like it?”

I glance at the crib. Then at him.

“She already loves everything you touch.”

His eyes darken for a beat. He slides his hand over my belly and lowers himself next to me on the couch.

“You terrify me,” he whispers, voice rough. “In the best possible way.”

My throat tightens. I run my fingers through his hair. “You make me feel safe, even when everything else is falling apart.”

We stay like that for a long moment, wrapped in something soft and fierce and wildly unspoken. Until my phone buzzes on the coffee table. Olivia:Heads up. PulseMatch just launched their next campaign. Thought you’d want to see the preview before it hits press.

Grayson groans. “We should’ve turned our phones off.”

I tap the link and wait for it to load, dread blooming in my stomach before I’ve even seen the screen. I know PulseMatch. They don't move without strategy. Without bite.

The video loads: golden lighting, artful lens flares, slow-motion laughter. A couple walks hand-in-hand through a vineyard. They kiss under a string of twinkling lights. They pose in matching linen outfits on a bluff somewhere suspiciously Santorini-esque. PulseMatch Presents:Love That Defies the Algorithm.And there they are. Daphne and Carter.

My breath catches like I’ve been slapped. I know their smiles. I remember those profiles. I sat with Daphne when she cried about her last relationship. I reviewed Carter’s endless questionnaire revisions. I recommended the vineyard they now use as their fake love story backdrop. I matched them. Six months later, she found him in bed with his Pilates instructor. They imploded, loudly, messily, publicly. She outed him on social media. He responded with a thread titled “Let’s Talk About Emotional Maturity.” It was carnage. And now they’re back. As PulseMatch’s answer to us.

“They’re trying to sell a fantasy,” I whisper.

Grayson sits up, his hand finding mine. “They’re baiting you.”

“They’re rewriting history and weaponizing my work. My instincts. My name.”

I press pause on the video, the image freezing on Daphne’s perfectly posed smile, the same woman who once sobbed into a lavender martini across from me, telling me she didn’t believe in love anymore. I had spent weeks convincing her that compatibility could still mean something. That she still meant something. And now she’s rebranded herself as the poster child for love without logic?

Grayson watches me closely, fingers brushing over mine. “You okay?”

“No,” I say, and the honesty feels sharp. “I’m not okay. This feels personal.”

“It is.”

“I spent years building trust with people like them. Teaching them that love wasn’t just an accident or a vibe, that it could be understood. That it was worth investing in.”

“And now they’re selling the opposite,” he says quietly.

“Worse. They’re selling it with my work.They’re turning what we built into proof that it doesn’t work.”

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