Page 98 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

“Okay,” Olivia says, clapping. “Who brought tissues? Anyone?”

I’m about to reply when Sophie nudges me, holding out a small cream-colored envelope.

“This came with Grayson’s gift,” she says, a rare softness in her voice.

I open it carefully:Margot,I wasn’t the kind of father who showed up when it counted. But I’m learning that late doesn’t mean never. You are building something more enduring than a company. You’re building a family, and you’ve brought my son home to it. Thank you. I don’t expect to be grandfather of the year. But I’ll be there, whenever you’ll have me. —Crane

I stare at the words until they blur. The room quiets.

“Who’s it from?” Priya asks.

I smile, holding it close. “An apology. And a promise.”

***

The afternoon drifts in a haze of sugar and sun. We eat too much cake. Sophie forces me into a photo booth with a flower crown three sizes too large. Priya makes everyone write their guesses for the baby’s name on pastel cards, Olivia writesCEO. Of course she does. And for a few hours, it feels like joy without condition.

But just as Olivia lifts her glass for a toast, her phone buzzes sharply. She glances at it, then freezes. Her expression shifts.

I catch her eye. “What is it?”

She hesitates, then steps closer. “Nothing for now. I’ve got it.”

But I know that look. I’ve worn it.

Later, as the guests filter out, I find Olivia near the hydrangea arch, typing furiously on her phone.

“Spill,” I say.

She sighs, showing me the screen. “Eleanor just dropped a video. Edited montage. It’s bad. She’s spinning herself as the victim of a coordinated smear. Says she was trying to expose us before ‘they weaponized a pregnancy to deflect.’”

A slow breath escapes me.

“I can handle it,” Olivia says.

“No,” I reply. “We’re not hiding. Not anymore.”

I slip into a quiet corner of the venue, a little alcove draped with vines and white roses. I pull out my phone and call Grayson.

He answers on the first ring. “Everything okay?”

“She did it again,” I say. “She twisted the truth before we could release ours.”

A pause. Then: “Then we release it now.”

“I want to say something,” I add. “Not just you. Us.”

His voice is steady. “Then let’s do it together.”

By the time I return to the main terrace, the sun is starting to dip, casting the whole rooftop in gold. Olivia’s already briefing the digital team. Sophie has commandeered the lighting for a soft, natural glow. And I’m stepping in front of the camera, still in my baby shower dress, no script, no filter. Just me. Just us. And it’s finally our turn to speak.

53

GRAYSON

New York is overcast the morning our story goes live. The city is unusually quiet from the penthouse windows, the streets muffled by fog and anticipation. I stand in the kitchen with a steaming cup of coffee, watching as the countdown clock on Olivia’s laptop ticks toward zero. In fifteen seconds, the interview Margot and I filmed, our truth, our rebuttal, our line in the sand, will go live.

Margot walks in wearing one of my sweaters over leggings, her hair still damp from a shower, and that steady fire behind her eyes. “Ready?” she asks.

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