Page 1 of In A Mood For Mr. Wrong

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MARGOT

Ihave three rules for success: Always be the smartest person in the room, never show weakness, and under no circumstances, ever, let Grayson King get under my skin. Unfortunately, all three are about to be tested in ways I never could have predicted. I sit stiffly in the oak-paneled conference room, my hands folded neatly over a crisp legal pad, my pen placed precisely parallel to its spine. Across from me, lounging as though this is nothing more than a casual brunch instead of a high-stakes business meeting, is Grayson King.

He sits with one arm draped lazily over the back of his chair, his dark suit unbuttoned, revealing just a hint of the athletic physique that has half the women in this city swooning. His wavy blond hair is slightly tousled, like he just rolled out of bed and somehow still looks perfect. And that smirk, that damn insufferable smirk, is stretched across his face like he knows something I don’t.

It’s been several weeks since I last saw him, and somehow, impossibly, he’s even more aggravating than I remember. The lawyer clears his throat, the sound breaking the heavy silence. “Let’s get to it, shall we?” He adjusts his glasses, flippingthrough a thick stack of papers. “As you both know, Arthur King leftPerfectly Matchedin the care of both of you, Grayson, as his grandson, and Margot, as his most trusted protégé.”

My heart skips a beat, then slams into a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I inhale sharply, forcing myself to think.Conditions?That wasn’t part of the plan. I prepared for co-ownership, a necessary evil, but I assumed it would be a business arrangement, cordial, professional, distant. I worked for this. I earned this.Perfectly Matchedis my life’s work. Grayson’s smirk widens, and I swear he can sense my frustration. He leans forward just slightly, enough to make sure I catch the mischief flickering in his ocean-blue eyes.

“Why do I feel like I’m about to regret showing up for this?” I mutter under my breath.

“Because you should,” he replies smoothly, just loud enough for me to hear. His voice is warm, rich, laced with amusement. The lawyer continues, oblivious to the tension simmering between us. “The will states that the first of you to marry will obtain a full control of the company.” Silence crashes over the room like a glass shattering in slow motion, sharp and jarring.

I blink, sure I’ve misheard. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard him, Evans.” Grayson stretches, rolling his shoulders like this is the most relaxed he’s ever been. “First one to tie the knot wins. Guess we better start sending out wedding invitations.”

I whip my head toward him. “Do you ever take anything seriously?”

He grins, the kind of slow, confident smile that has probably gotten him out of countless traffic tickets. “Not when it involves government paperwork and legally binding emotional blackmail.”

My pulse spikes. “This is ridiculous. That can’t be legally binding.” The lawyer pushes up his glasses. “Actually, it is.Arthur King was quite clear in his wishes. If neither of you marries within a year,Perfectly Matchedmaybe sold.”

Sold.

The word echoes in my mind, a sharp, brutal punch to the gut.Perfectly Matchedis my entire world. I spent years proving myself to Arthur King, showing him I had what it took to lead this company. He believed in me, mentored me, and taught me everything I know about this business.Perfectly Matchedisn’t just a job, it’s the culmination of everything I’ve worked for. And now, because of this ridiculous clause, all of that is on the line. I inhale sharply, forcing myself to think. There has to be a way out of this. A loophole, a technicality…

Grayson exhales a low whistle. “Well, that’s one way to make a matchmaking company interesting.” My gaze snaps to him. “This is a joke to you?” He shrugs. “Not my fault Arthur wanted to turn our lives into a rom-com.” My jaw clenches. Of course, he’s taking this lightly. He always does. I, on the other hand, am already calculating the fastest way to neutralize the threat. There’s only one solution: Win. I turn to the lawyer. “Is there anything in the will that prevents us from proving we’re capable of running the company without marriage?”

The lawyer hesitates. “Technically, no. The clause was designed to encourage long-term commitment and stability.”

Grayson chuckles. “Oh yeah, nothing screams stability like a shotgun wedding.”

I ignore him. “Then I propose an alternative. Grayson and I will prove, beyond a doubt, that we are the best matchmakers in the industry. Whoever creates the most successful match should take overPerfectly Matched, no wedding required.”

Grayson arches a brow. “A matchmaking battle? Now that’s an idea I can get behind.”

“Of course, you can.” I cross my arms, leaning back slightly. “It’s not like you take anything seriously enough to run a business.”

His smirk doesn’t waver. “Oh, sweetheart, if I wanted to win this company, I’d have it in my pocket already.” Heat prickles at the back of my neck, but I refuse to let him get a rise out of me. The lawyer looks skeptical, but he flips through the documents. “There’s nothing in the will preventing that… if both parties agree.”

I steel myself. “Do you agree, Grayson?”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, eyes gleaming with challenge. “Oh, Evans, I thought you’d never ask.” And just like that, the war begins.

I don’t just plan to win, I plan to crush him. I spent years under Arthur’s mentorship, perfecting the art of compatibility, of reading people and predicting their relationships with mathematical precision. Grayson might rely on charm and gut instinct, but I have data, strategy, and a track record of success. I’ll craft matches so flawless the board will have no choice but to handPerfectly Matchedover to me.

He thinks this is just another game, another bet between rivals. But I don’t gamble, I calculate. And the first move? Finding the one match he can’t possibly make work. Let’s see how charming Grayson King really is when I set him up for failure.

By the timeI get home, my head is pounding. Not from the noise, or the lights, or the city, no, it’s from Grayson King and his smug, maddening smirk that has been burned into my brain since the moment he leaned across that conference table likewe were co-starring in some enemies-to-lovers office rom-com. I kick off my heels in the entryway, drop my bag somewhere in the vague direction of the console table, and head straight for the wine rack. No dinner, no decompression, just Cabernet. Survival mode.

Glass in hand, I flop onto the couch, grab a throw blanket, and call Sophie. If anyone can talk me off this ledge, or at least enjoy the view with me, it’s her. She picks up on the second ring.

“Please tell me you didn’t punch him,” she says without even saying hello.

I groan. “Would I be calling you from my couch with wine if I had?”

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