Page 102 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

He laughs, setting it down with a mock salute. “Well, I’m just trying to give her elite tactical surveillance.”

We sit cross-legged on the rug, surrounded by tiny socks, a blanket shaped like a bear, and more onesies than we could ever realistically use. The domestic chaos feels oddly perfect.

“Okay,” I say. “Final name pitch of the day: Poppy.”

“Too floral,” he replies.

“Cleo?”

“Too feline.”

“Ruth?”

He squints. “Too Supreme Court.”

I sigh, flopping back on the rug. “Well, there goes the legacy.”

Grayson leans over me, brushing my hair off my forehead. “We’ll know it when we say it out loud,” he murmurs. “It’ll feel like home.”

Later that evening, I find him in the nursery, sitting in the rocking chair, writing in a leather-bound journal. He looks up when I enter.

“You writing the next great American novel?”

“A letter. For her.”

He lets me read it. The words are simple, but they hit deep. A promise to protect her, to always tell her the truth. To show up, even when it’s hard. I sit beside him and start my own:If you ever wonder who your mother was… she was scared. But she showed up anyway. She fought. And she chose love over fear.

We write until the sky turns navy and the lights of the city begin to glow. We don’t talk about Eleanor. We talk about names. Blankets. First steps. We talk about joy. And for the first time, it feels like that’s enough.

55

GRAYSON

It’s just past nine at night, and our penthouse looks like it’s been overtaken by a very chic, slightly unhinged field hospital. There are neatly folded towels on every surface. Three go-bags lined up by the door. A car seat installed and reinspected twice. And Margot, barefoot in leggings and one of my button-downs, is sitting on the couch with a pint of rocky road and the kind of expression that says she’s either amused or two spoonfuls away from declaring war.

I crouch beside the hospital bag. “Okay, let’s run through it one more time. Essentials: soft robe, charger, your custom playlist, snacks, those lemon candies you like…”

“And don’t forget the fan,” she adds. “The one with three speeds. I’m not laboring under fluorescent lights without some air circulation.”

“Already packed. Between the portable fan, the essential oils, and the Bluetooth speaker, I feel like I’m prepping for a luxury retreat, not a delivery room.”

She spoons more ice cream with a shrug. “A luxury retreat with screaming and blood.”

“Comforting visual, thank you.”

I zip the bag and glance at my spreadsheet again, yes, I made a spreadsheet. Hospital routes A, B, and C, emergency contact tree, snack inventory.

Margot notices the tabs and groans. “Grayson.”

“What?” I say, defensive. “You love my overachieving tendencies when they benefit you. This is peak overachieving. We’re about to bring a human into the world. Chaos cannot win.”

She reaches out and cups my cheek with mock affection. “If this baby comes out loving lists, it’s on you.”

“I accept full responsibility.”

***

Later, she’s in bed with a heating pad tucked around her back and my laptop propped on her knees. We’re half-watching a documentary about penguins, mostly for the soothing narration, when she suddenly goes quiet.

---