Page 3 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

Grayson’s watching me from the side, his blue eyes steady. Not interrupting. Not correcting. Just… there. Supporting. The way I’d forgotten I needed. And then it comes.

“Some are saying the algorithm’s almost too accurate,” the host adds lightly, flipping her cue card. “There are rumors online that some matches are so precise, they border on unsettling. People feeling overly exposed or paired with partners that ‘see too much, too soon.’ What would you say to that?”

I keep my smile, even as my fingers curl slightly against my lap.

“It’s understandable,” I say smoothly. “When people encounter something that cuts past the surface, that sees through them instead of just lookingatthem, it can be a little disarming. But love isn’t about comfort zones, it’s about connection. And sometimes, those connections reveal more than we expect. That doesn’t mean it’s wrong. It means it’s working.”

The host nods, clearly satisfied. But she’s not the only one asking questions today. After the segment, I’m ushered toward a second setup, this one more chaotic, folding chairs, journalists with notepads, a few digital reporters live-streaming directly from their phones. Flashbulbs spark, and the questions come fast.

“Margot! Danielle Cross fromTechLine Weekly. Was there a particular data point that inspired the algorithm’s emotional fluency metric?”

I answer with a nod, voice steady. “We saw a high correlation between long-term relationship success and a person’s ability to name and navigate their emotions in tandem with their partner’s. That became a core pillar of the emotional calibration model.”

“Jordan Lee,The New York Ledger,” another voice calls. “Are you concerned about the ethical implications of predictive romantic modeling?”

“We’re aware of the responsibility we carry,” I say carefully. “Which is why transparency and user agency are key. Users see their compatibility metrics, and can opt out at any stage.”

A third reporter, Nadia Flores fromHearts & Minds, raises her voice: “Some early users describe their matches as ‘unsettlingly accurate.’ Do you think hyper-compatibility might limit romantic growth or the element of surprise?”

I smile, though it takes effort. “I think what people call ‘surprising’ is often just unfamiliar. When something, or someone, sees us fully, it can feel uncomfortable. But that doesn’t mean it’s not exactly what we need.”

Grayson hasn’t left my side. He folds his arms loosely, eyes scanning the room like he’s ready to step in the second anyone goes too far. I don’t need him to, but God, it’s nice to know he would.

But the question lingers in my head long after the segment ends. Even as the anchor shakes my hand, even as the applause signals a commercial break. Even as Grayson joins me and wraps an arm around my waist like he’s anchoring me to the room.

“You were brilliant,” he says, low and certain.

I nod, but I don’t answer right away. Because something about that question, too accurate, won’t leave me alone. It scratches at the edge of my confidence, makes me wonder if all our precision, all our success, might carry consequences I haven’t fully mapped out. I should be reveling in this moment, but part of me is already running diagnostics in my head, questioning edge cases, anomalies, cracks that could widen if we’re not careful.

“I gave them the best answer I could,” I murmur, finally. “But I hate that they even had to ask.”

Grayson studies me, his expression softening. “You don’t have to fix everything in one day.”

“I know.” I try to smile. “But I wanted this launch to be flawless. Not just functional, flawless.”

“It was,” he says. “And even if it wasn’t, it’s real. And that’s what matters.”

Back at Perfectly Matched HQ, the celebration is already in full swing. Balloons, champagne, screens filled with glowing data, and the team buzzing with the kind of high that only comes from being part of something world-changing. I let myself bask in it. A little. I pose for photos. I answer more questions. I give Priya a hug so tight she yelps. Everything looks like success. But somewhere in the flood of congratulations and real-time match notifications, I catch a headline on someone’s iPad screen:When Love Feels Programmed: Can Too Much Precision Backfire?

I ignore it. I have to. We’re live in 82 countries. People are finding each other. Falling in love. The algorithm is doing exactly what it was designed to do. Still, as I stare out the glass windows of our office, Manhattan shimmering like a dream beyond the glass, I feel it again, that flicker. Not doubt. Just... a shift in the air.

And I tell myself what I always do when my chest tightens like this: The math is sound. The system is built. There’s no room for fear when you’ve programmed for certainty. So I turn back toward the party. Toward Grayson’s hand brushing mine. His fingers find mine fully this time, twining through them like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I look up, and he’s already watching me, blue eyes soft, steady, so unlike the chaos inside me.

He leans in slightly, his voice low so only I can hear. “You don’t have to carry all of this alone, you know.”

My breath catches. “I’m not.”

“You’re trying to,” he says, his thumb brushing over the back of my hand. “But I’m right here. Whether you launch a perfect product or the whole thing burns down. I’m still here.”

Emotion swells in my chest, sharp and unexpected. I turn toward him fully, searching his face, and for a beat, everything else falls away—the team clustered near the champagne tower, the glowing analytics on the wall monitors, the occasional pop of a balloon as it floats too close to the ceiling lights. The hum of music blends with laughter, the rhythmic shuffle of heels against the marble floor, the clink of glasses being raised in toasts I can’t hear.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

He smiles. “Always.”

The flicker of a gold ribbon drifts past us from a burst balloon above, landing near our feet. Somewhere behind us, Priya laughs too loudly at something one of the engineers says, and someone hits play on a new playlist, one that begins with a slow, romantic beat that doesn’t match the bubbly chaos of the room. And yet, here in this small space between us, it fits. The noise fades. The light catches the curve of his jaw, the slope of his smile. I lean into him, just slightly, just enough to feel his breath against my temple. And for the first time all day, I let myself believe that maybe certainty isn’t just built in algorithms. Maybe sometimes, it’s found in someone who refuses to let go.

The celebration continues around us, voices, footsteps, applause, but I stay there a moment longer, wrapped in the warmth of his hand, his presence, his promise. I tell myself everything is exactly as it should be.

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