Page 19 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

It’s small, almost innocuous. But it’s something. My pulse picks up speed. I lean in, beginning to build the pattern, eyes narrowing with each connection I map. Whoever did this, they knew exactly what they were doing. They were precise. Strategic. Too careful.

My breath fogs up the window slightly as I chase a thread I hadn’t seen before. My chest tightens, not from fear, exactly, but from something deeper. Suspicion. Pressure.

One folder. Two. Then a third. Hidden beneath a string of characters designed to blend in. Masked in legacy code only someone with intimate access would think to use. Sophie’s name crosses my mind. Briefly. Instinctively. But I shake it off just as quickly. No. Not Sophie. She wouldn’t. But that leaves a short list: Alana Beckett.

Her name flashes again, more urgent than ever. I’ve suspected her since the beginning, flagged her in every mental audit. But now, the pattern is clearer. She left six weeks before launch, citing burnout and a need to step back, but her access hadn’t been fully revoked for days. She still had her hands on the system long after she should have been gone. She had a vision. She always did. One where the algorithm wasn’t just a tool but a suggestion, where gut instinct ruled over code. She wanted more humanity in the match process. She wanted control, and she didn’t like that I had it.

Until now, I hadn’t thought to look beyond her. Because if Alana did this, she didn’t do it alone. She couldn’t have. Not with the reach this breach required. Someone helped her. Someone still inside. Someone with access.

I begin pulling logs from the days surrounding her exit. Every file transfer, every flag, every sudden permission change. I scan for overlaps, cross-referencing timestamps like I’m solving a puzzle no one else knows exists. And there it is. Another login. A different device. A different city. But the same file access. Someone’s helping her, and I’m going to find out who.

I push my chair back slowly, rubbing a hand over my face as the weight of what I’ve uncovered settles in. The cabin feels smaller now. The air, thinner. Footsteps crunch outside. Grayson’s coming back. I close the laptop, slide it under the bench, and walk calmly to the stove. I grab the kettle and begin fussing with tea like that’s all I’ve been doing all morning.

When the door opens and Grayson walks in, cheeks pink from the cold and arms full of wood, he grins like nothing’s changed, and for a fleeting moment, I let myself smile back. Even though my heart is pounding, because someone betrayed us, and I intend to find out exactly who. Before I lose the trail, I open a secure tab and start composing a message to Olivia:Need you to quietly look into Alana Beckett’s last two months before she left. Specifically comms with outside vendors, flagged admin activity, and any shift in her calendar patterns. Also cross-reference system access logs for anyone with overlapping credentials. Priority. Don’t loop in Sophie yet.

I pause for a beat, then add:You’ll understand soon. Just trust me.

I encrypt the message and hit send, then delete the thread from my history for good measure. It’s not that I don’t trust Olivia. I do. But I trust fewer people every hour this goes on. If Alana had help, we’ll find a trace, A footprint, a whisper, and with Olivia’s help, I’ll find out who stayed behind to finish what Alana started.

Minutes later, her reply comes through, short and efficient, classic Olivia:On it. I’ll start digging and keep it off the main logs. Give me twenty-four hours.

A second message from Olivia follows before I can exhale:Also, heads up. Two more elite-tier clients reached out this morning threatening to pull their accounts. Citing ‘loss of confidence’ in our long-term projections. Apparently the rumor mill is gaining traction.

I stare at the message, pulse pounding. Another crack. Another threat. And more than ever, I feel like I’m running out of time to stop this from crumbling completely. The clients in question, Vivian Carlisle and Julian Ross, aren’t just anyone. Vivian is a venture capitalist with ties to three of our biggest competitors, and Julian practicallyisour luxury tier, a reclusive tech billionaire who doesn’t just invest, he influences. If they walk, others will follow.

I don’t have time to craft a campaign. What I need is someone who knows how to handle people, how to persuade them when they’re already halfway out the door. Grayson.

He walks back into the room just as I’m rereading Olivia’s message, shaking snow from his coat sleeves. I cross to him without hesitation.

“I need a favor,” I say, keeping my voice low.

He raises an eyebrow. “This sounds serious.”

“Vivian and Julian are both considering leaving. Olivia says they’ve lost confidence. If we don’t intervene now…”

“You want me to charm them,” he says, already catching on.

“Convince them,” I correct. “Calm them. Remind them what we’re building, and why they trusted us in the first place.”

He pauses, then nods slowly. “I’ll take care of it.”

And for the first time all morning, I let myself breathe just a little easier.

14

GRAYSON

The calls aren’t going well. Before I even pick up the phone, the news hits. Olivia texts Margot first, and I watch her face tighten as she reads it. Then she passes me the phone in silence. A headline flashes across the screen:Perfectly Matched Algorithm Under Fire—Industry Experts Call for Independent Audit.

There’s already a panel scheduled for the afternoon news cycle, and apparently a whistleblower rumor is making the rounds. None of it confirmed, but it’s enough. Enough to start a storm we might not be able to contain.

Margot’s pacing the length of the cabin, one hand buried in her hair, the other clenched around her phone. She’s trying to keep it together, but I can see it, the tight set of her shoulders, the panic simmering just beneath the surface. And then my phone buzzes again. This time, it’s Cassian. I hesitate, but answer.

“Grayson,” he says, voice sharp, clipped. "What the hell is going on? I’ve got board members pinging me, press contacts demanding statements, and Eleanor, your aunt, by the way, threatening to go live with her own version of the story."

I rub my forehead. “We’re on it. Margot’s working the system side, I’m handling client retention. We’ve already contained two of the biggest risks.”

Cassian doesn’t sound impressed. “You have days,maybe. You better fix this. Or this entire company goes down with you. Both of you.”

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