Page 100 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

“She’s lucky to have you,” she murmurs.

I kiss her slowly, sweetly, letting the quiet soak into my bones.

“It’s over,” she whispers.

I nod. Holding her close. “And now we build.”

***

After dinner, we sit in the nursery, still half-finished, half-hoped. The walls are a soft blush-gray, the crib still missing a screw or two, but it already feels like something sacred. Margot drapes a folded baby blanket over the rocking chair and traces her fingers across the top rail of the crib.

“She kicked today,” she says quietly. “When the video went live.”

I smile. “She knows what it means to win.”

“No,” Margot says, turning to me, glowing in the low light. “She knows what it means to stand up.”

Outside the window, the skyline sparkles like a city exhaling. No noise. No war. Just the lull of a place finally still.

“I want her to grow up with more joy than armor,” Margot says.

“She will,” I promise. “Because she’ll grow up with you.”

“And you.”

I slip my arm around her waist, pressing my lips to the curve of her shoulder. “Whatever comes next, we’re ready.”

There’s peace now. Real peace. Not silence from exhaustion, but a clearing, like standing at the top of a mountain and realizing you survived the climb. We don't talk about Eleanor anymore. We talk about paint colors and strollers. About whether she’ll have my eyes or Margot’s mouth. We make plans. Because for the first time in months, the future doesn’t feel like a battleground. It feels like a home.

54

MARGOT

The light pouring into the penthouse is soft and golden, like the city itself has decided to exhale. For once, the world isn’t holding its breath. Neither am I.

I pad barefoot across the hardwood floors, one hand instinctively cradling my belly. The baby gives a sleepy little kick, as if to say good morning. In the kitchen, I find Grayson standing over the stove, staring suspiciously at a frying pan like it might attack.

“Is that… supposed to be an omelet?” I ask, leaning against the doorway with a raised brow.

He frowns. “It was. Until it betrayed me.”

“It looks like it’s trying to stage a coup.”

“I prefer to call it rustic.”

I snort, sliding onto a barstool as he scrapes the offending egg-mass onto a plate. “Well, rustic is trending. Maybe it’ll become a thing.”

He places it in front of me with exaggerated pride. “Bon appétit, Mrs. King.”

I take a bite. Chew. Swallow. Pause. “You might’ve invented a new protein source.”

He smirks, stealing a kiss before grabbing his coffee. “See? I’m always innovating.”

***

A few hours later, we’re walking hand in hand through SoHo, navigating uneven sidewalks with far too many shopping bags and not enough shame. The baby boutique smells like lavender, pinewood, and new beginnings. Mae, the owner, greets us like we’re family.

“I saw you two on the news,” she says, beaming with grandmotherly approval. “You looked like a couple out of a storybook.”

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