Page 41 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

I turn to Mason. “What’s your dealbreaker?”

“Dishonesty.”

“Biggest turn-on?”

“Curiosity.”

“Secret guilty pleasure?”

“Reality TV.The Great British Bake Offspecifically. Don’t judge me.”

Alexandra lifts a single eyebrow. “Unexpected.”

I turn to her. “Same questions.”

“Dealbreaker?” I ask.

“Arrogance without substance.”

“Turn-on?”

“Precision.”

“Guilty pleasure?”

Alexandra pauses. “Color-coded spreadsheets. Preferably shared ones.”

Mason leans over, mock-whispering. “I think I just fell in love.”

Olivia snorts and pretends to cough into her tablet. "You’re not the first to say that in this room. You won’t be the last."

I sit back, hands steepled. “We may be in trouble.”

Just as I’m about to pivot to their first assignment, Olivia’s tablet buzzes. She glances down, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. She tilts the screen toward me. It’s a secure message. Only one word is highlighted: Mallory.

I exhale through my nose. Senator Claudia Mallory, queen of PR landmines and public takedowns, again. I glance back at Mason and Alexandra, still trading playful barbs like a modern screwball comedy. They have no idea what kind of storm is building on the outside. Fantastic.

25

MARGOT

There’s something deeply satisfying about planning an event that isn’t your wedding. Don’t get me wrong, our wedding is going to be beautiful, chaotic, and slightly over budget thanks to Madeline’s obsession with artisan gelato carts, but orchestrating a professional mixer for two extremely high-profile clients? That’s where I thrive.

Grayson and I sit on the couch, laptop open between us. He’s reading Alexandra and Mason’s profiles again like he’s prepping for the SATs. I sip my tea and scroll through the list of handpicked guests we’ve pulled from our elite roster.

“So you’re telling me,” I say, tapping the screen, “that this woman hiked the Andes solo and still ghosted her last match because he didn’t know how to pronounce ‘Machiavellian.’”

“She has standards,” Grayson says.

“She has murder mystery dinner party energy,” I reply.

The venue I select is a private rooftop garden in SoHo, elegant without being ostentatious. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls, strings of soft white lights, and an open bar with craft cocktails tailored to client personalities: a bourbon-based ‘Wolfe Bite’ and a sleek, gin-forward ‘Devaux Standard.’ There’s a string quartet for ambiance and a discreet photographer who signs more NDAs than most hedge fund managers.

I coordinate with Olivia for logistics, which mostly involves her sending me concise bullet points and me texting back heart emojis while stress-eating chocolate almonds. By mid-afternoon, we’ve confirmed valet service, passed security sweeps, and finalized a floral installation that won’t cause allergic reactions or obscure facial expressions.

By the time I slip into my black silk dress and adjust my lipstick, the venue is glowing. Grayson meets me at the entrance, looking devastatingly put together in a navy suit with no tie and the kind of smile that makes me forget why we were ever enemies.

“Ready to unleash the wolves?” I murmur.

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