Page 8 of In A Mood For Mr. Wrong

Grayson is up to something. I can feel it in the way he looked at me before walking away, in the way his smirk lingered just a little too long. He’s not gloating outright, which means he has a plan, and worse. he thinks it’s going to work. I don’t like it. So, naturally, I need to get ahead of whatever he’s scheming. I head straight to Olivia’s office, heels clicking against the marble floor with purpose. If anyone can help me counter whatever play Grayson thinks he’s making, it’s Olivia. She’s one of the sharpest strategists I know, and she also happens to hate losing almost as much as I do.

As I push open her office door, she doesn’t even look up. Instead, she continues scribbling something in her planner, her expression maddeningly smug.

“Took you long enough,” she says.

I narrow my eyes. “You knew I was coming?”

She finally glances up, arching a perfectly shaped brow. “Margot, please. You’re predictable when you’re pissed off.” I cross my arms, irritation bubbling under my skin. “I’m not pissed off.” She smirks. “You’re irritated, then. Maybe a little rattled?”

Olivia leans back, folding her arms. “Yep.”

I grit my teeth. “And?”

“He wants me to find Elliot a match.”

My fingers tighten around the armrest of the chair. Of course, he does. And knowing Grayson, he probably gave her some ridiculous directive to pick someone who would throw me off balance. Someone who would make him look like a matchmaking genius. I can practically hear his cocky voice now, Margot, sweetheart, you should know by now that I always win. Not this time. I inhale, steadying myself. “Then we need to make sure his match fails before it even begins.”

Olivia studies me for a long moment, tapping her pen against her desk in slow, thoughtful movements. “I have an idea. But you’re not going to like it.” I tilt my head, intrigued despite myself. “Go on.”

She shifts forward, her expression turning sharper. “We don’t sabotage the match outright. Instead, we find someone Elliot can’t help but be drawn to. Someone who shakes up his world so much, he won’t even realize how incompatible they truly are.”

I arch a brow. “So... set him up for a spectacular failure?”

A slow, wicked smile spreads across Olivia’s face. “Exactly.”

I exhale, my mind already racing through potential candidates. If we do this right, Grayson won’t even see it coming. He’ll think he’s winning, think he’s cracked the Elliot Pierce enigma, right up until it all implodes in spectacular fashion. The perfect, slow-burning disaster.

I straighten in my seat. “Who do you have in mind?”

Olivia’s eyes gleam as she flips through her files, pulling out a profile and sliding it across the desk toward me. I pick it up and scan the details, my lips curling into a smirk as I take in the name.

I let out a slow, deliberate breath. “This… could work.”

Olivia leans back, satisfaction gleaming in her eyes. “I know. She’s the one person who can make Elliot’s world implode without even trying.” I glance at the profile again, my mind already spinning with possibilities. This isn’t just about winning anymore, it’s about proving Grayson wrong. Proving that I know this business better than he ever will. I meet Olivia’s gaze, determination hardening my features. “Set up the introduction.”

She grins, picking up her phone. “Already on it.”

As I rise from my chair, a new sense of confidence settles over me. Grayson might think he’s in control, but he has no idea what’s coming. I step into the hallway, my heels clicking against the polished floors, and pull out my phone. My fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment before I type out a message: Hope you’re ready, King. This match is going to be unforgettable. A moment later, my phone buzzes with his response: Sweetheart, I was born ready. I roll my eyes but can’t help the small flicker of excitement in my chest. This war isn’t just about Elliot anymore.It’s about winning. And I refuse to lose.

Yet, as I gather my things to head home, I can’t shake the way Grayson looked today, the confidence in his stride, the way his smirk was just a little too self-assured. The worst part? It wasn’t even unwarranted. He had every reason to feel smug, and that irritated me more than anything.

That night,I curl up on my couch, glass of wine in hand, staring at the city skyline through my living room window. I should be feeling satisfied, I have a plan, a strategy in place, but my thoughts keep drifting somewhere they shouldn’t. To Grayson. I hate how smug he looked today.

How that damn suit fit him too well, tailored to perfection, highlighting the lean, athletic frame beneath. And the way he rolled up his sleeves? Unfair. Completely unfair.

I take a deep sip of wine, shaking my head. No. I refuse to let my brain entertain these ridiculous thoughts. But the problem is, my brain seems to be doing just that. The memory of the way his suit fit, sharp and perfectly tailored, lingers in my mind longer than it should. The way his tie was loosened by the end of the day, his sleeves rolled up, forearms flexing as he ran a hand through his already-messy blond hair. It’s maddening. Why is he like this? And why am I noticing? He’s my competition, the man I need to beat.

But instead of focusing on his inevitable failure, I keep replaying the way his smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, the way his blue eyes gleamed when he knew he was getting under my skin. I groan, pressing my fingers against my temples. This is Grayson. The same Grayson who’s spent years making my life difficult. The same Grayson who would show up to meetings five minutes late with no notes and still somehow leave with a standing ovation. Who once convinced an entire panel of VCs to invest in a feature hehadn’t actually built yet, just by winging a story about “vision” and “gut instinct.” Who called calendar invites “optional suggestions” and believed deadlines were “more like guidelines, really.” Who regularly spilled coffee on shared documents, forgot passwords mid-demo, and somehow made chaos look like charisma. He’s the guy who ran on charm and instinct while I stayed up all night building strategy decks and color-coding spreadsheets. Who laughed off structure, mocked my five-year plans, and once told our interns to “trust the vibe” instead of the roadmap I spent two weeks drafting. And somehow, somehow, he still managed to impress people. Make them believe he had it all under control. Meanwhile, I was the one holding everything together behindthe scenes, cleaning up his messes, smoothing over the fallout, making sure the work actually got done. And yet, here I am, thinking about him like he’s some kind of leading man in a rom-com. Nope. This needs to stop.

Before I can spiral any further, I grab my phone and dial before I can stop myself. “Tell me why men are the worst,” I say the second the call connects. A laugh echoes through the line. “Ah, this must be about Grayson.”

I scowl. “I didn’t say that.”

“But you didn’tnotsay that,” my best friend, Sophie, teases. “Alright, tell me everything. How did he piss you off today?”

I sigh dramatically. “It’s not just that he’s annoying. It’s that heenjoysbeing annoying. And he’s wearing stupidly attractive suits now, which is just distracting.”

Sophie snorts. “Oh no. He’s hot and smart? The horror.”

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