Page 43 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

“So,” she says, swirling her drink, “are you the Wolfe everyone keeps whispering about?”

“Depends,” Mason says. “What are they whispering?”

“That you race cars, drink bourbon, and once got dumped for quoting Keats during brunch.”

He laughs. “That’s only half true. It was Byron.”

Daphne grins. “Figures.”

Across the garden, Alexandra is deep in conversation with a man wearing a linen suit and the expression of someone who just discovered her résumé.

“You hike solo?” he asks, clearly impressed. “Isn’t that... risky?”

“Only if you’re unprepared,” she replies, sipping her drink. “Which is why I wouldn’t bring you.”

He blinks. “I—uh—love that.”

Grayson leans over to me, amused. “That poor man is going to cancel his Equinox membership tomorrow.”

Another guest, a charming, nervous ceramicist named Theo—accidentally spills a champagne flute down his own shirt while trying to compliment Alexandra’s shoes. She just tilts her head and says, “You need a tailor more than you need a match.”

Meanwhile, Mason helps the bartender carry a tray of drinks back to a corner table. He delivers them with flair, tipping a pretend hat to the guests like he’s in a noir film.

“I think Mason just seduced the entire catering staff,” I whisper.

“I think Alexandra just scared someone into changing careers,” Grayson counters.

It’s not chaos, not quite. But it’s definitely a performance, each interaction pulling a thread, unraveling expectations, stitching new impressions. And somewhere in the middle of it all, Mason and Alexandra brush past each other again. A pause. A smirk. No words exchanged. But the electricity? Palpable. My fingers tighten around my glass. They may not know it yet, but they’re already orbiting something bigger than themselves.

Then I see her.

Senator Claudia Mallory. In a crisp white suit, bold red lipstick, and the kind of expression that turns gala fundraisers into televised showdowns. She’s standing near the entrance, one hand on her hip, the other holding a champagne flute like it’s part of a silent threat. I blink. Olivia, halfway across the room, sees her too, and her posture goes ramrod straight.

“She wasn’t invited,” I mutter to Grayson, who turns just in time to catch Mallory scanning the crowd like she’s building an enemies list.

“Do you think she’s here to flirt, sabotage, or legislate?” he murmurs.

“Yes,” I whisper.

Mallory starts walking toward us with the slow, deliberate confidence of a woman who knows she’s the twist in the final act.

Grayson’s hand slips discreetly into mine.

“Smile,” I say through clenched teeth. “Here comes the cliffhanger.”

She stops three feet from us, her expression unreadable beneath perfect contouring and political calculation.

“Senator,” I say tightly. “To what do we owe the surprise appearance?”

She lifts her glass. “I came for the gin. Stayed for the tension.”

Grayson’s jaw tightens. “I assume this isn’t just social curiosity.”

Mallory smiles. “Actually, it is. I'm in the market. For a match. Something long-term. Substantial. Televised, perhaps.”

My mouth opens. Closes. “You want us to find you a match?”

“Unless you’d prefer I go toPulseMatch. But they’re still recovering from that therapist-ex crossover disaster.”

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