Page 8 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

“Grayson…”

“You can argue with me later. Right now, you’re not staying here. Not with someone inside the company manipulating the code and trying to frame me for it.”

Her jaw tightens like she wants to fight me on it, but then something in her gives. She exhales, shoulders slumping slightly.

“Okay,” she says. “But I pick the place.”

“Deal.”

We pack light. Two duffel bags. Laptops. Chargers. A burner phone Margot pulls out from her sock drawer like this is something she’d prepared for, just in case. The tension between us simmers quietly. Not anger, not quite. Just a heavy awareness of everything left unsaid.

An hour later, we’re in the back of a black SUV headed north, away from the city lights, toward the Catskills. Margot picked the destination, a secluded cabin that belonged to an old family friend, tucked between two hills, surrounded by trees thick enough to block out the world. No cameras. No neighbors. No signals strong enough to track. It’s the kind of place people go when they want to disappear, and right now, disappearing feels like our best option.

Funny how this isn’t the first time we’ve run. The last time we dropped everything in a blur, it was because of Liam, her ex-fiancé with a vendetta and a lawyer's charm polished into a blade. We were trying to protectPerfectly Matchedthen, too. And Margot. Always Margot. It’s almost becoming a pattern, every time life flips itself sideways, I end up behind the wheel next to the smartest, most frustrating woman I’ve ever loved, fleeing something neither of us fully saw coming.

I should be irritated by that. But instead, I find myself almost smiling. Because if I’m going to run, if I’m going to hide out in some forgotten mountain cabin with lines of code and the threat of betrayal trailing us like shadows, there’s no one else I’d rather do it with.

Margot doesn’t sleep. She watches the dark road like it’s a puzzle she hasn’t solved yet. Her profile is lit by the dashboard glow, and every now and then, her fingers twitch like she’s typing on invisible keys. I want to reach for her. To say something comforting. But the truth is, this isn’t a moment for comfort. It’s a moment for truth. And right now, the only truth that matters is this: Someone tried to break what we built. And we’re going to find out who, together. The silence in the car stretches comfortably for a while, but I know it won’t last. Not with us.

She shifts in her seat, tucking her legs up slightly like the leather’s too cold. Then, as if she can’t help herself, she mutters, "You're taking the long route. Again."

I glance over at her. "It’s the scenic route."

"It’s the slow route," she says, arms crossed. "You always take the longest possible way to anywhere."

"It’s safer. Fewer major roads, less chance of being tracked," I reply evenly, even though I know she’s not really talking about logistics.

She exhales sharply, not quite a sigh. "I just want to get there already."

"We will. Unless you’d rather drive?"

She gives me a look. "Last time I drove, you spent the entire time criticizing my braking distance."

"Because you don’t brake, you attack the pedal like it owes you money."

Despite herself, her mouth twitches. "You’re the only person I know who drives like a bodyguard and argues like a philosophy major."

"You’re the only person I know who packs a burner phone and thinks that’s a perfectly normal thing to do."

She finally smiles, just a little. But it’s enough. Enough to ease the tension between us, even if it’s only temporary. I don’t say anything more. The road stretches ahead of us like a promise we haven’t yet decided how to keep. But I know one thing for sure, things are about to get a lot more complicated.

7

MARGOT

The gravel crunches beneath the tires as we pull into the narrow driveway, the cabin barely visible in the early morning fog. It’s quiet here, too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes your thoughts louder, your heartbeat sharper. I stare out the window, hands clenched in my lap, as the car slows to a stop.

“This is it?” Grayson asks, shifting into park.

I nod. “It’s not much, but it’s off-grid. No signal, no neighbors. Just trees, air, and maybe a few raccoons with boundary issues.”

He raises a brow. “Perfect. You, me, and woodland surveillance.”

I roll my eyes and push open the door, stepping out into the crisp air. The cabin is a squat, cedar-shingled thing tucked between towering pines, with smoke-stained stone steps and a porch that creaks under my weight. It smells like moss and memory, like something untouched by time. Grayson hoists both duffels like they weigh nothing, following me up the steps.

Inside, it’s as expected. Rustic. Clean, but sparse. One large room with a kitchenette, a fireplace, and a worn couch that looks like it’s seen a few arguments. One bedroom. One bed. Which, of course, makes sense, we’re engaged. Sharing a bed is nothing new. The place is small, just a few steps from the front door to the fireplace, a single table tucked into the corner by the kitchenette. Everything feels close here, every breath, every glance. Still, something about seeing that bed again in this quiet space, away from the chaos, feels... intimate in a way I wasn’t prepared for. My breath catches for a second, but I don’t stop walking. Sharing a bed isn’t new to us, it’s familiar, even expected by now, through tension, through passion, through everything in between. But the sight of it, simple and unassuming in the middle of the room, sends a flicker of awareness down my spine. Not because it’s unexpected. But because it feels inevitable. Grayson notices.

“I’ll take the couch,” he says quickly, setting the bags down.

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