Page 1 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

1

MARGOT

There's moment, delicate and electric, that comes right before everything changes. It doesn't arrive with fireworks or cinematic music, but in sharp, quiet breath that cuts through conference room ofPerfectly Matched, the exclusive matchmaking agency now run by me and Greyson, built on the idea that data and compatibility can create lasting love, fingers hovering just above the keyboard, one click away from launching the thing that has consumed every fiber of my being for the past several years.

"Is it weird that I feel like I'm about to initiate a space launch?" I ask the question aloud, not really expecting a response. Priya, my friend and our brilliant lead developer, doesn't glance up from her screen. Her fingers move with practiced ease, her dark hair swept into a bun that never seems to come undone.

Her voice is as calm and dry as ever. "Only if that spaceship is headed straight for the hearts of 1.2 million users."

Exactly. I've poured myself into this project with the kind of devotion that people that people usually reserve for lifelong love or war. For few years, I've eaten, breathed, and dreamed in code. I tested over 40,000 match scenarios before I found the right pattern, ones where a theater actor from Chicago found lasting happiness with a data analyst from Austin, or the time a self-proclaimed romantic nihilist in Boston fell for a Oman in D.C. because the algorithm saw what they couldn't: emotional endurance, shared humor style, a mirrored tolerance for morning chaos.

One of my favorite tests involved a retired marine who listed zero hobbies and a sharp-tongued florist who hated small talk. The algorithm paired them based on an obscure compatibility tag they both shared: their ability to communicate through action rather than words. They've been married for nine months now, and their last update to us included a video of the two of them building a greenhouse together in their backyard, grinning like fools.

These weren't anomalies, they were the proof. The algorithm doesn't care about looks or superficial preferences. It goes deeper. It measures fluency, Attachment styles, risk aversion, humor calibration. All of it. Love, stripped of the illusions. Not the fireworks-and-fairytales kind, but the kind built on quiet compatibility and enduring connection, or, more accurately, love guided by truth, the kind of truth only a precisely tuned algorithm, can reveal. The kind that doesn't just see how people present themselves, but how they actually function, how they show up, how they fight and how they forgive. It's not glamorous, but it's real. And I did it. Every late-night simulation, every bug fix at 2 a.m., every soul-crashing data crash was worth it. Because this sin't a shot in the dark. This is certainty. In a world drowning in swipes, likes and shallow dopamine hits, I've built something smarter. Something honest. something rooted in data.

I smooth the front of my navy blazer, tailored precise, strategic, and take a deep breath. There's no room for chaos today, no distraction. Only the elegance of code and the certainty of science. Then I click the button. A soft, melodic chime fills the room. The screen pulses to life. The dashboard begins to move.

Priya looks up, offering one of her rare smiles. "That's it. We're live." For a moment, there's silence, and then real-time analytics dashboard lights up like Times Square on New Year's Eve. Green icons flash across the map. Notifications stack in bright, celebratory pings. Heart icons bloom and pulse like fireflies across continents. “Twenty thousand connections already." Priya murmurs, awe creeping into her voice. "No...thirty."

I stare at the numbers as they climb. I feel the surge of pride begin to rise in my chest, a rush so fierce it leaves me lightheaded. "We just made history," I whisper. And yet, beneath the glow of triumph, something shifts. A flicker. a Flutter. No doubt, never that. The math is solid. The model is flawless. Everything unfolding in front of us is exactly as I predicted. But I know this algorithm better than. anyone, and I know exactly who's going to call the moment he sees what I've done.

Right on cue, my phone buzzes against the table. I don't have to look. Grayson King. Of course. I answer, bracing myself. "Hi, Greyson."

"Congratulations," he says. His voice smooth, familiar, threaded with something softer under sarcasm. "The algorithm is live. You couldn't wait one more day to change the world without me?"

"It was ready."

"It was also unapproved," he counters. "We agreed on a joint rollout. A press strategy. Coordination."

I glance at the screen. Fifty thousand matches now. I swallow the urge to sound smug. "We also agreed on a launch window. I stuck to it."

He lets out a quiet breath, the kind that means he's counting to ten in his head. "Of course you did. Always three steps ahed."

"If you're calling to argue, I don't want to do this right now. Not today," I replay.”

“I’m calling to remind you that we're still co-owners, and engaged,” Margot. “Like it or not, and I'm not going to let you turnPerfectly Matchedinto some robotic science experiment."

I smile, but it feels like armor clinking into place. "And I'm not going to let you reduce it to a gut-feeling matchmaking circus." We're silent for a moment. That familiar tension, equal parts heat and exasperation, hums between us like a live wire.

“Enjoy the press storm, he says finally. " Because next tine, we do this together. Like we promised." He hangs up.

I stare at the phone for a second longer that I mean to, then set it down gently. This is how it's always been with him, heat and pushback, sparks and stubbornness. But under all of it, I love him. Fiercely, stupidly, always. Even when he doesn't like the way I make decisions. Even when he doesn't understand why I move fast and sharp and certain. I still love him. And I know, without a shadow of doubt, that he loves me. That's never the question. The challenge is how we love each other through our differences, through the moments that push and stretch and demand more than comfort. and somehow, that's what makes it real.

"So," Priya says from her desk, not even pretending she didn't hear every word. "Should I start drafting a response vide now, or are we going to let the slow burn play out first?"

I exhale, shaking my head. Let the love games begin. Because t's never business with him. It's battle and devotion and something in between. We don't fight because we don't care. We fight because we both care too damn much.

2

GRAYSON

The second I see the alert on my phone, I know exactly what she's done.Perfectly Matchedhas gone live. The algorithm, her algorithm, is out in the wild, making matches faster than my inbox can ping. I swipe through the media coverage, headlines like:The Future Of Love Is HereandPerfectly Matched Launches Revolutionary Compatibility Model.

There's already a glowing quote from a beta couple who claim the algorithm "knew us better than we knew ourselves." One outlet's calling itThe Next Frontier of Emotional AI. Another's speculating about IPO potential. It's genius and it's chaos. I close the tab and toss my phone not the couch. She couldn't wait. And yet...I can't help the way my mouth tilts, just a little. Because of course she didn't wait. That's Margot, relentless, brilliant, infuriating, and damn it, I love her for it.

I pace the living room, coffee in hand. from the windows, Manhattan gleams under early light. The city doesn't know it yet, but the rules of modern love have just been rewritten by a woman in heels sharp enough to draw blood and a brain that terrifies most of Silicon Valley. I glance at the framed photo on the bookshelf, Margot and me, a rare candid shot where she's laughing mid-sentence, eyes lit-up, hand wrapped tightly in mine. It was taken the night we got engaged. she's said yes beforeI even finished the question. No hesitation, just certainty. She's always been that way, when she knows, she knows. And now, she knows this algorithm is going to change everything. I finally call her. she picks up on the first ring.

"You didn't even give me a courtesy of a heads-up?" I say, skipping the small talk.

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