Page 77 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

I stand and take her into my arms. She fits like a piece I hadn’t realized I’d been missing until I found it.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she says. “You want to do more.”

“Of course I do.”

“What’s next?”

I pull back just enough to look her in the eyes. “We release the video first thing tomorrow. Then we follow it up with Mason and Alexandra’s story, edited and ready. Olivia’s drafting the email to their media rep now.”

“And PulseMatch?”

I smirk. “Let them play checkers. We’re playing chess.”

She grins. “You really think this will work?”

I reach up and tuck a piece of her hair behind her ear. “No, I know it will.”

We stay in that pocket of quiet, bodies pressed together in the darkened studio, until Olivia peeks her head in.

“It's already trending,” she says. “We just leaked a teaser. People are talking. They want more.”

I glance back at Margot.

“They’ll get more,” I say.

Because this isn’t just business anymore. This is personal. And we’re just getting started.

41

MARGOT

I’ve watched Grayson’s video three times now, and each time, it steals the breath from my lungs in a different way. Not because I’m searching for flaws in the delivery or analyzing how it will be received. Not because I need reassurance that we’re doing the right thing. But because there’s something achingly beautiful about hearing the man I love speak with such quiet conviction, about me, about us, about the messy, fragile truth of what we’ve built together.

His voice pours through the speakers of my office, low and deliberate, filling the space like a promise that refuses to be broken. Outside, the skyline is wrapped in soft light, the morning haze gently peeling away as the city stirs beneath it. But in here, where it’s just me and his words, the world holds its breath.

Grayson doesn’t perform. He never has. What he says, he means. Every syllable feels stripped bare, unvarnished by branding or strategy, sharpened only by sincerity.

I sit on the edge of my chair, hand resting on the swell of my belly, and for a moment, everything else fades. The chaos, the headlines, the worry that keeps me up at night. It all vanishes in the warmth of his voice. And then she kicks, twice. Soft and firm. As if she knows. As if she’s responding to the sound of him, to the steadiness in his tone, to the way he says my name like it’s more than just a name, it’s home.

“You’re his,” I whisper, voice catching. “And he’s yours.”

I’m not someone who cries easily. I’ve spent most of my life mastering the art of composure, wearing it like armor. But something about this moment, this man, this baby, this quiet sacred space between battles, unravels me.

I don’t check the flood of messages pouring into my phone. I don’t open the news alerts or the emails or the investor pings. Not yet. Because for once, I want to sit in the silence after love is spoken aloud.

***

By midday, the studio downtown hums with quiet urgency. The air is chilled, likely to keep the talent from sweating beneath the hot lights, and everything smells faintly of citrus water and dry shampoo. It’s the kind of space that’s designed to soothe, but never lets you forget that you’re about to be watched.

The walls are sleek, covered in soft gray panels and minimalist artwork that probably costs more than my first apartment. The chairs are velvet, the lighting diffused to mimic late-afternoon sunlight. A set designer flits past, adjusting pillows that no one will sit on.

Olivia moves through the space like she owns it. Her heels click softly over the polished floors, her headset tilted just enough to remind everyone she’s in control. She checks lighting angles, double-checks the host’s prep notes, then spins on her heel to study me.

“No shimmer,” she says to the makeup artist, her voice low but absolute. “Keep her radiant. Not glowy. There’s a difference.”

I smirk. “You know I’m sitting right here, yes?”

She spares me a glance. “You look like a woman who has already won. Let’s make sure everyone else knows it too.”

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