Page 82 of In A Mood For Mr. Wrong

Her lips press together. “Warn me?”

Margot slides a folder across the table, her voice deceptively sweet. “You might want to take a look atthisbefore you get too comfortable with your lawsuit.”

Eleanor hesitates for just a second before opening it and then shefreezes. Her entire body goes rigid as her eyes scan the documents.

Cassian leans in, his voice smooth. “I particularly enjoyed the part about theoffshore accounts.”

Isabella sighs dramatically. “Oh, and thetax evasiondetails? Absolutelyriveting.”

Margot taps a finger against the table. “So here’s the deal, Eleanor, youdropthe lawsuit, you walk away quietly, and wedon’tsend this straight to the SEC.”

Eleanor exhales slowly, her mask cracking ever so slightly. “And if I refuse?”

I lean forward, my voice deadly calm. “Then weburyyou.”

Silence. A long, tense pause as Eleanor weighs her options. Then, finally, she exhales, her nails digging into the table. “You think you’ve won.”

I smirk. “We know we have.”

A flicker of somethingalmostlike respect passes through her eyes before she stands. She smooths her dress, lifts her chin, and without another word walks out of the room.

Margot lets out a slow breath. “That’s it?”

Cassian grins. “Oh,she’s furious. But she’s notstupid.”

Isabella raises her glass. “Toburning our enemies.”

Cassian clinks his against hers. “And lookingdamn goodwhile doing it.”

Margot turns to me, a slow smile spreading across her lips. “We did it.”

I let out a breath, reaching for her hand, squeezing it. “Yeah, Evans. Wedid.”

And just like that, the war is over.

55

MARGOT

The war is over and for the first time inweeks, I can finally breathe. Eleanor King isgone. The lawsuit has been buried before it even had a chance to rise, her desperate grasp for power crushed under the weight of her own corruption. Now,Perfectly Matchedisours. The realization hits me as I stand in the executive suite of thePerfectly Matchedheadquarters, looking out at the city skyline. The night is crisp and clear, the glow of the buildings stretching endlessly into the horizon. Rain from earlier has left a sheen on the streets below, the reflections of neon lights dancing across the pavement. The hum of the city is distant yet constant, a reminder that life moves forward even after battles are won. Everything feelsdifferent. Lighter.Freer. A soft knock sounds behind me. I don’t have to turn to know who it is. Grayson.

He steps inside, his presence instantly grounding me in a way nothing else can. He has taken off his jacket, his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, and the top button of his dress shirt undone. There’s a quiet intensity in his expression, something bothcalmandundeniably electric, as if he, too, is finally allowing himself to exhale. For a moment, neither of us speak.Then, he exhales, stepping closer until he is justinchesaway. “It’s over,” he says, his voice low and steady.

I nod, the reality of those words settling in. “It’s over.”

His fingers brush against mine, barely a touch, but it is enough to send a shiver down my spine.

“We did it,” I whisper, the words barely audible.

Grayson tilts his head, studying me as if he is committingevery inch of this momentto memory. Then, slowly, he lifts my hand, pressing his lips to my knuckles in a touch so gentle that it steals every ounce of breath from my lungs. It’ssoft. It’sdeliberate. It’s the kind of touch that sayseverything.

I swallow hard, my pulse hammering. “You’re really doing that right now?”

His lips quirk slightly, a hint of mischief in his eyes. “Doing what?”

I arch a brow, unwilling to let him win this game so easily. “Being…like this.”

He chuckles, his voice smooth as silk. “Like what, Evans?”

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