Page 82 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

“Good morning,” she says without looking up. “You slept?”

“Enough.”

“Liar.”

I shrug out of my coat and hang it over the back of one of the chairs. “Where are we?”

“PulseMatchgoes live at ten. We’re scheduled for ten-fifteen. I’ve booked simultaneous streams to all major networks, plus international media via syndicate. Our piece is prepped. The copy’s final. The script is clean.”

“Do we have a leak risk?”

“Always,” she says, finally turning toward me. “But I’d rather play offense.”

She hands me a folder. Thick card-stock. Gold foil logo. I flip it open. The headline reads:Legacy Isn’t Blood. It’s Choice.

I meet her eyes. “You wrote this?”

She nods. “With Margot.”

The words catch in my throat. I nod and set the folder down. Across the room, Cassian strolls in with two lattes and a stack of printouts. “People are hungry for a fall. Just make sure they choke on it when they try to swallow ours.”

The prep room is cold. Too cold. The studio crew likes it that way, keeps sweat at bay, they say. I roll my shoulders beneath the dark jacket Olivia insisted I wear. It’s not a suit. It’s armor.

Margot joins me a few minutes before we go live, wearing a cream blazer that hugs her figure just above the bump. Her lips are bare, her eyes lined, her expression sharp enough to slice glass.

“You look lethal,” I say, rising.

“Good,” she murmurs. “I’m tired of playing polite.”

She takes my hand, lacing her fingers with mine. Her skin is warm. Steady. I don’t realize I’ve been holding my breath until she squeezes gently.

“We don’t flinch,” she says.

I nod. The countdown begins. The camera clicks on. The lights are unforgiving, but I don’t blink. My face is steady. My voice is calm.

“To those of you watching, let’s begin with the truth.”

I pause, letting silence do what no words could.

“I wasn’t born into the King name. It wasn’t a birthright. It was something I inherited from a man who raised me with purpose, who taught me to build, to fight, to lead. And I did.”

I look straight into the lens.

“But Perfectly Matched was never about inheritance. It wasn’t built from bloodlines or legacy. It was built by intention, by work, by choice.”

Margot steps forward beside me, her hand resting lightly over her stomach.

“I chose this man,” she says. “Not for his name. Not for the shadow he cast. But for who he is when no one’s looking. The world likes to tear down things it doesn’t understand. Love. Loyalty. Legacy that isn’t born but made.”

The camera stays on us for two long, weighted seconds. And then fades to black. We step off set into silence. No one in the crew says anything. Olivia checks her phone, then nods once and walks out. Cassian grins faintly and disappears into another room. I exhale slowly. Margot stays with me, her hand still wrapped around mine.

“You did it,” she says quietly.

“So did you.”

The door swings open again, and Olivia reappears, tablet in hand. Her eyes are sharp. Focused. “It’s out. Trending globally. Initial sentiment is split, but we expected that.”

“What’s Eleanor doing?”

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