Page 79 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

Priya is pacing at the window with her phone to her ear, murmuring to our crisis PR rep in London. Cassian leans against the far wall with a coffee cup that smells suspiciously like bourbon and a look that says I told you so.

Margot sits at the head of the table, posture ramrod straight, one hand resting protectively on her belly. Her eyes are focused, but there’s a question simmering beneath them:What now?

“What’s her angle?” Olivia asks, finally breaking the silence. “She’s been off the grid for years, and now she resurfaces with PulseMatch?”

“She’s not just resurfacing,” I say, folding my arms across my chest. “She’s rewriting the narrative. Her narrative. Mine.”

Cassian raises an eyebrow. “How personal are we talking here?”

I take a breath, grounding myself in the weight of the past. “Eleanor doesn’t do things by halves. If she’s returned, it means she’s got something, something she thinks will break our footing.”

Margot glances at me. “Do you think she’ll go after the company?”

I nod. “Yes. But more than that, she’ll go after the foundation. The story. The part people believe in.”

And the part I’ve kept buried for years.

***

The door to the conference room shuts behind us with a soft but definitive click, the kind of sound that punctuates the end of something. An illusion, a sense of control, whatever we thought we had.

I loosen the top button of my navy shirt, shrug off the structured charcoal blazer that feels too tight across the shoulders today, and toss it across the back of a chair. Beneath it, my sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, and the faintest trace of tension coils in my forearms as I flex my hands. I’ve worn suits like armor since I was twenty-three. But today, the fabric feels like a lie. Too crisp. Too polished. Too composed.

The air in my office is cold, thank god for that. The windows are cracked open just enough to let in the late-afternoon breeze. The city is loud out there. But in here, I need quiet.

I walk to the bar cart in the corner. Everything gleams, crystal decanter, glasses lined up like soldiers. I pour an inch of scotch, swirl it once. I don’t drink it. Instead, I turn back to the desk, where Margot is now seated on the edge, arms crossed, eyes locked on me like she’s tracking every flicker of emotion. She’s not asking yet. She’s waiting.

“I’ve been bracing for this moment since I found out the truth,” I say, finally, my voice low and even. “But I thought maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t use it. That somewhere, under everything, there was still a line she wouldn’t cross.”

Margot cocks her head, expression unreadable. “You mean the woman who engineered a dating algorithm to weed out emotions for efficiency?”

I give a dry, humorless laugh. “Fair.”

She stands and closes the distance between us, stopping when we’re chest to chest. Her hand rests lightly against my ribs. “You know this doesn’t change anything, right?”

“It changes everything,” I whisper. “If it gets out…”

“It’s already out,” Olivia says, her voice tight as she reenters, tablet in hand. “And it’s moving fast.”

She hands me the device. The screen lights up. The headline stares back at me, clinical and cruel:EXCLUSIVE: The Secret Bloodline of Grayson King – What Eleanor Never Told Him… Until Now.

Beneath it is a photo of Eleanor from this morning’s PulseMatch campaign, cropped tightly on her face, as if daring the world to doubt her. My jaw tightens. I don’t need to read the article. I already know what it says.

“She didn’t just leak it,” I murmur. “She handed it to them. She timed it.”

Margot steps closer. “Then we take the narrative back. Again.”

I nod, but something sharp settles behind my ribs. “Not this one. This one isn’t just about the company. It’s about who I am.”

43

MARGOT

The sky outside the penthouse windows is still that lavender-blue blend of early dawn, where the city hasn't quite made up its mind whether to wake up or keep dreaming. The softest hint of gold starts brushing against the skyline, spilling through the glass and catching on the pale fabric of our living room curtains.

I’m curled up on the sofa, legs folded beneath me, one hand resting lightly over the bump that used to be a whisper and now makes herself known with steady, opinionated kicks, especially around 6:30 a.m.

Grayson walks in from the kitchen barefoot, hair still mussed from sleep, holding a mug in each hand. He’s shirtless, wearing only a pair of low-slung joggers, and he looks so unfairly good like this that I can’t help but smile.

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