Page 31 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

She leans in. "Let’s make it unforgettable."

I don't wait for another word. I cup her face and kiss her, slow, deep, deliberate. The kind of kiss that tells her I’m not thinking about PR or press statements anymore. I’m thinking about her. About us. About everything we’ve survived and everything still waiting for us on the other side.

She rises onto her knees, the blanket slipping off her legs as I pull her closer. Her fingers thread through my hair, tugging just enough to make me groan into her mouth. I lift her easily, her legs wrapping around my waist as I carry her to the bedroom. We’ve done this before, but not like this, not after everything. Not with so much unspoken need curling in the space between our bodies.

The second I lay her on the bed, she pulls me down with her, her breath catching as my mouth traces the line of her collarbone. Her shirt is gone in seconds, followed by mine. Skin against skin, we move like a conversation we’ve never stopped having.

"Grayson," she whispers, arching beneath me. "Please."

"I’ve got you," I murmur against her skin. "I always will."

When I slide inside her, it’s not rushed. It’s not frantic. It’s reverent. She clutches at my shoulders, her body meeting mine with a rhythm that’s all heat and surrender. Every thrust, every moan, every soft gasp is a promise. We move together, building something stronger than fury, deeper than fear. Something that doesn’t crumble under scrutiny. Something that lives, steady and whole, between us. And when she falls apart in my arms, when her body clenches around mine and her voice breaks on my name, I follow her with everything I have.

I roll us onto our sides, my arms locked around her as she breathes against my chest. Her skin is slick with heat, her legs still tangled with mine, and I can feel the echo of her heartbeat pounding against me. I brush my fingers down her spine, slow and reverent, and she shivers again, not from cold, but from everything we’ve just given to each other. Her lips find my neck, then my jaw, like she’s not done yet. Like neither of us is.

She tilts her hips against mine, and I’m already hard again. I kiss her, this time deeper, hungrier, the kind of kiss that says round two isn’t a question, it’s a promise. She straddles me, her hair falling around her face as she sinks down onto me, slow and deliberate, her mouth parted in a gasp I swear I’ll never forget.

“Grayson,” she breathes.

I grip her hips and guide her, meeting each roll with a thrust of my cock that makes her eyes flutter shut. The pace builds, heat and hunger and something messier, more consuming. I slide a hand between us, finding her g-spot making her cry out, her nails digging into my chest as she rides the edge. She unravels above me, trembling, pulsing, perfect, and I follow with a loud groan, spilling into her with a force that makes my vision blur.

We collapse together, sticky and breathless, her head resting on my chest, my hand in her hair. Neither of us says a word for a long time, but I know what she’s thinking, because I’m thinking it too.

This, us, isn’t just survival. It’s the reason we fight. Outside, the world might still be on fire. But here, with her, I’ve already won.

21

MARGOT

Lights. Camera. Judgment. The set ofThe Sunday Spotlightlooks like it was pulled straight from a catalog: perfectly arranged chairs, a backdrop washed in romantic golds and soft whites, and lighting warm enough to soften any hard edges. Everything about it whispers intimacy, forgiveness, charm. But I know better. These interviews are engineered for impact. They're where public images go to die, or to be reborn. There’s no middle ground.

I wear a pale blue sheath dress that hugs just enough and deflects even more. My hair is in soft waves, understated makeup, barely-there heels. The look is intentional, vulnerability framed by elegance, power wrapped in softness, designed to signal both approachability and strength. Grayson wears a tailored charcoal suit, no tie, his shirt collar open, golden tan against crisp white. He is effortlessly handsome, every line of his suit designed to disarm, to project confidence without arrogance, a calculated kind of charm that still manages to feel real.

Together, we present a picture the media never anticipated, polished, united, quietly defiant. A headline in motion: 'Scandal-Proof. United. Still Standing.'

Grayson’s hand rests over mine as we sit across from the host, Michelle Langdon. A seasoned media pro, Michelle’s smile is as practiced as her mic check.

“Thank you both for joining us,” she begins. “You’ve been through... quite a few headlines recently.”

Grayson chuckles, easing the tension. “We figured we’d show up before someone else decided to write the ending for us.”

Michelle nods. “So let’s talk about it. The algorithm scandal. The Vegas wedding. The smear campaign. Why come forward now?”

She leans in slightly, voice lowering like she’s inviting us into something private. “Did either of you ever consider walking away? FromPerfectly Matched? From each other?”

I sit up straighter, squeezing his hand once before answering. “Because people deserve the truth. We’ve built a company based on transparency, honesty, and connection. And while our journey might be unconventional, it’s real. It’s ours.”

Michelle’s eyes soften. She shifts her cards slightly. “And let me ask the question everyone online has been debating, was the Vegas wedding a cover-up? A distraction from the algorithm breach?”

Grayson smiles. “We were already engaged. The wedding was spontaneous, not secret. It wasn’t about hiding, it was about love.”

I nod. “We’re not ashamed of how we started. But we do believe in celebrating properly. So... we’re having another wedding.”

Michelle raises a brow, delighted. “A real wedding?”

Grayson leans in. “Smaller. For family and the people who missed Vegas. No Elvis impersonators. Probably.”

“Probably?” I shoot him a look.

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