Page 78 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

The set is quiet as I take my seat across from the host. She’s cool, elegant, her navy blouse crisply pressed and her expression unreadable beneath the practiced smile. A producer gives us the countdown. The red light on the camera clicks on. And then it’s just me, the camera, and the truth I’ve fought hard to reclaim.

The questions come carefully at first, measured, respectful, the kind designed to open a door rather than batter it down. I answer each one with clarity, with honesty. I speak of algorithms and intention, of how we don’t promise magic but rather offer tools, deep, intentional pathways toward the kind of connection that doesn’t fade when the cameras stop rolling.

But it’s when she asks, “What do you want now, Margot?” that the air shifts.

There’s a long silence as I absorb the weight of that question. What do I want? I think of Grayson. Of the way his hand found mine when I thought I might fall apart. Of the crib he built crooked but proud. Of the tiny life we’re bringing into a world that seems determined to test us at every turn.

“I want to build something that lasts,” I say quietly, but with no hesitation. “For my daughter. For the people who put their hearts in our hands. For anyone who’s ever been told they are too much, too complicated, too wounded to be loved. Because love, real love, isn’t reserved for the lucky. It’s for the brave.”

The silence that follows is thick, reverent. The host nods slowly, and I see it in her eyes, she understands. The camera light fades. And I exhale.

***

The moment I step outside, the world rushes back in. Olivia is already on three calls. She breaks away long enough to press her phone to my hand.

“You broke the algorithm,” she says with a proud grin. “And someone just started a fan thread about your blazer.”

Grayson arrives moments later, his coat open, his hair windswept in a way that makes him look criminally good. He doesn’t say anything at first, just pulls me into a kiss that tastes like pride and black coffee.

“You were luminous,” he murmurs, his lips brushing my temple. “Terrifyingly so.”

We ride back to HQ in silence, our fingers laced together across the seat between us. Outside, the city pulses with life, unaware that something small and seismic has just shifted.

Perfectly Matchedheadquarters is buzzing the way it only does when something monumental has happened. Sophie’s voice floats from down the hall, mid-call with a reporter. Cassian leans over Olivia’s shoulder, pretending not to be impressed by the analytics flashing across her screen. Every corridor hums with hope and the possibility of a narrative rewritten.

I move through the space slowly, absorbing it, the lifted shoulders, the genuine smiles. The sound of a company exhaling. For the first time in weeks, I allow myself to believe that we might actually be okay. And then Olivia’s phone buzzes. She glances at it. Freezes.

“You need to see this,” she says, her voice shifting from confident to cautious. She hands me the screen. It’s a video. Just thirty seconds long. Branded withPulseMatch’slogo. The tone is darker, the music cinematic in a way that tries too hard. But the image is unmistakable.

Eleanor King. Impeccably dressed. Regal. Dangerous.

She turns to face the camera with the poise of a queen reclaiming her throne, her expression one of calm destruction. The caption unfurls beneath her image:What if the future of love doesn’t belong to them anymore?The screen fades to black. I stare at the phone in my hand. The office grows still around me. Grayson appears beside me, reading it. His hand brushes my back.

“You okay?” he asks, low and steady.

I nod once. But the chill creeping up my spine tells a different story. Because I know exactly what this is. Eleanor didn’t just choose a side. She’s coming for the crown.

42

GRAYSON

There’s a moment of silence that happens just before everything changes. The kind of silence that feels less like absence and more like anticipation, like the air itself knows something is about to shatter.

I’m standing in the executive boardroom atPerfectly Matched HQ, staring at the paused image on the screen, and despite the buzz of conversation around me, I hear nothing. Just the hum of blood rushing in my ears, the muted echo of a woman I swore I’d never let near my future again.

There she is. Eleanor King. Poised, polished, perfectly lit. A column of white fabric molded into a tailored blazer, pearl necklace gleaming at her throat like a warning sign. Her smile is small, precise. The kind of smile that has razors beneath it.

ThePulseMatchlogo hovers beside her like a coronation banner. She doesn’t speak in the clip. She doesn’t have to. Her gaze says it all: calculated, cold, and confident. This isn’t a guest appearance, this is a return. A reclamation. A declaration. She’s not just aligning with PulseMatch, she’s staking a claim.

“She’s siding with them,” Margot murmurs from beside me, her voice hushed with disbelief. “Your mother’s siding with the enemy.”

“No,” I say quietly, never looking away from the screen. “She’s reminding us she’s never needed permission to choose power.”

***

We call an emergency strategy meeting, and within the hour, we’re all gathered again. The midday sun floods the glass walls with a sharp glow that feels too bright for the tension inside.

Olivia is already deep into crisis-mode, moving between her monitors and the whiteboard with her sleeves rolled up and her expression carved from steel. She rattles off updated metrics, click rates, speculation threads. Her voice is brisk, controlled, but I can see the weight of it behind her eyes.

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