Page 42 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

He grins. “Only if you promise to throw Alexandra into the deep end.”

“She can swim,” I say.

We exchange a nod, step into the curated mayhem, and watch as our two wildcards begin to orbit the room. Game on.

***

It’s the kind of night where everything feels too smooth, too staged. The lighting hits just right, the guest list mingles with practiced ease, and even the canapés arrive at perfect room temperature. It should be comforting. Instead, I feel the hairs on the back of my neck lift.

I chalk it up to nerves, or intuition. Or maybe just the voice in the back of my mind reminding me that perfection, real, cinematic perfection, is always the first scene in a disaster movie, but I shake it off. For now.

The rooftop garden glows like something out of a curated dream. String lights crisscross above us, casting a soft golden shimmer across the ivy-covered trellises and elegant lounge seating. The skyline of lower Manhattan rises beyond the glass railing, a glittering backdrop to what looks like a very refined jungle gym for the emotionally elite.

Servers glide by with trays of miniature canapés—tuna tartare on lotus crisps, bite-sized truffle sliders, and edible flowers I can’t pronounce. A bartender in a crisp vest mixes cocktails with surgical precision, pouring a Wolfe Bite over a perfectly cut ice sphere while someone else garnishes a Devaux Standard with a curl of lemon and two frozen grapes.

Alexandra arrives first. She’s in a slate-gray dress that somehow manages to be both minimalist and devastating. Her hair is pinned back in a twist so sharp it could cut glass. She scans the space, already cataloging the exits and wine pairings, no doubt.

“Ms. Devaux,” I say, stepping forward with a smile. “Welcome. You look lethal.”

She offers a small nod. “You chose a good venue. Understated, well-ventilated, no red wine carpets.”

“I live to serve.”

“Where’s my drink?”

Grayson appears beside me like a magician with a glass in hand. “Gin-forward. A hint of lavender. And zero compromises.”

She accepts it with a look of amused suspicion. “You remembered.”

Then Mason Wolfe walks in, looking like he just stepped out of a fragrance campaign. Black on black. Charcoal suit, no tie, devil-may-care smirk.

“I brought my best manners,” he says, holding up two fingers in a mock scout’s honor salute. “And my worst intentions.”

“You’ll need both,” I say sweetly.

He spots Alexandra and saunters over, drink already in hand. “Nice to see you again. Try not to elbow anyone tonight. We’re trying to make friends.”

“No promises,” she replies, sipping her cocktail. “Especially if someone brings up cryptocurrency again.”

“Already crossed that off my list,” he says. “But I am considering a dramatic reading of my latest investor pitch.”

“I’ll bring the exit survey,” she says.

Grayson and I watch them drift into the crowd, circling, pausing, engaging, testing. They speak with other guests but keep glancing back at each other like they’re subconsciously measuring distance. The energy is sharp. Controlled.

“You think this will work?” I ask Grayson quietly.

He slides a hand to the small of my back. “If it doesn’t, it won’t be because they weren’t compatible. It’ll be because they didn’t surrender to it.”

I glance around at the perfectly arranged flowers, the curated crowd, the quietly pulsing jazz trio in the corner.

“God, I love it when a plan comes together.”

“Even if the plan is chaos?”

“Especially then.”

The mingling begins in earnest. A woman named Daphne, venture capitalist, full-body laughter, allergic to bullshit, corners Mason near the bar.

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