Page 99 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

I nod. “It’s time.”

The screen flashes. The video is live. The first twenty minutes are chaos, in the best way. Olivia’s tracking metrics in real time. View count doubling every thirty seconds. Shares climbing. Engagement through the roof.

By the time we hit the half-hour mark, the tide is unmistakable. Positive comments flood in. Clients, former skeptics, journalists. Words like brave, transparent, powerful begin trending. People quote Margot’s line—“Love deserves better than spectacle.”Someone remixes it into a video with a sweeping orchestral soundtrack. Even Senator Mallory posts a clip on her feed with the caption:There’s nothing more radical than honesty.

Olivia looks up from her screen. “We’re not just trending. We’re winning.”

***

That afternoon, I step up to the podium atPerfectly Matched’sHQ. Behind me, the city pulses in pale gold through floor-to-ceiling windows. Olivia flanks one side. Crane the other. Margot is home, watching with our daughter kicking under her ribs.

I speak clearly. Calmly. No spin. No theatrics.

“We founded Perfectly Matched on the belief that relationships deserve intention and privacy. Recent attempts to damage that trust, through false documents and leaked client data, have been exposed. We’ve filed suit. We’ve produced evidence. And we will not be silent.”

I pause. Let the flash of cameras settle. “We’ve always been about connection. Not control. That’s the difference between us and them.”

When I step down, the room erupts with questions, but Olivia handles them like a fencer with steel in her voice. And Crane, stoic, sharp-eyed—pulls me into a private elevator as soon as the cameras are off. He hands me a folder.

“PulseMatchjust released a statement,” he says. “They’re severing all ties with Eleanor effective immediately. Terms of the settlement include public acknowledgment of their role in the leak, a full retraction, and... this.”

I open the folder. A notarized agreement.PulseMatchformally relinquishing any claim over intellectual property tied to our algorithm.

“Is this real?” I ask.

Crane smiles. “Signed an hour ago. She’s done.”

For a moment, I can’t speak. The weight that’s lived behind my ribs for months suddenly feels liftable.

“She tried to bury us,” I say.

“She forgot who she was up against,” Crane replies.

He claps me on the shoulder before stepping away. I watch him go, the sound of his shoes fading into the quiet hum of vindication.

***

That night, the city feels gentler. The sky is a deep shade of navy outside our windows, and the penthouse glows with golden warmth. I find Margot curled up on the couch in a blanket, a mug of peppermint tea cradled between her hands.

She looks up as I walk in. “How does it feel?”

“Like something sacred was returned to us,” I say, sinking beside her.

She smiles, leaning into me. “We got our name back.”

“No,” I whisper, brushing my lips to her temple. “We made it mean something again.”

We sit there in silence, fingers entwined, the city finally quiet.

On the table is a small frame. Inside it: a still from the interview, our hands clasped between us. Next to it, Crane’s letter.

“I’m thinking of writing a letter to her,” I say.

“To our daughter?”

“Yeah.” I run a hand through my hair. “Something to remind her that legacy isn’t what you’re born into. It’s what you build.”

Margot shifts, placing my hand on her belly.

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