Page 46 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

We watch the profiles together, side by side on the couch. Margot leans her head on my shoulder as we scroll.

“She’s going to eat at least two of them alive,” she says.

“That’s why we lead with the ethicist,” I say. “He’s fluent in both French and red flags.”

She laughs, soft and tired. “I hate that we’re good at this.”

I glance at her. “I love that we are.”

The war is underway. The rules are set. Now all we need… is the match.

***

The first date is discreet. Private table. Weeknight. High-end but unpretentious. The restaurant is tucked behind an unmarked door in Tribeca, a subterranean spot with velvet banquettes, moody lighting, and minimalist jazz bleeding from a vintage speaker system. The walls are exposed brick, the menus leather-bound and handwritten, and the waitstaff move with the precision of diplomats. It’s the kind of place where power meets privacy, and a well-placed compliment could be currency.

The table they’re given is cornered in intimacy: candlelit, semi-screened by trailing ferns and a tall wine rack that doubles as a sound buffer. Every detail has been curated by our team—from the perfect vintage of Châteauneuf-du-Pape to the soft gold tones of the ambient lighting that highlight but never interrogate. Even the air smells expensive, like saffron and negotiation.

Mallory arrives precisely on time in a sharply tailored navy pantsuit and heels that could puncture tires. She nods once at the hostess, twice at the discreet camera crew we’ve hidden behind a nearby floral installation, and takes her seat with the same precision she uses to dissect legislation.

The match? Étienne Marcelle. French-born AI ethicist with Oxford degrees and a dry wit. He walks in looking equal parts European cinema lead and morally sound philosophy professor. No tie. Rolled sleeves. The aura of a man who could debate Aristotle while mixing a perfect martini. Their first exchange is tense, formal.

"Senator," he says, bowing slightly. "Or may I call you Claudia?"

"Only if I call you by your student debt balance."

He laughs. “Touché. But you’ll find I paid it off early. Out of spite.”

A smile tugs at her lips, and she catches it before it lands. They order wine. Then argue about data privacy over scallops. Somewhere between dessert and decaf, she leans forward.

“You’re more tolerable than expected.”

“And you’re terrifying in the best possible way.”

The footage we review the next day is clinical—Mallory’s expression unreadable, Étienne’s relaxed but deliberate, but there’s a shift. A spark, however reluctant. Margot and I exchange a look.

“She didn’t stab him with a dessert fork,” she says. “That’s practically affectionate.”

“She let him finish a sentence,” I add. “Twice.”

Olivia rewinds a frame and points to where Mallory’s fingers subtly mirror Étienne’s hand placement. “Subconscious mimicry. Positive sign.”

We all lean back, barely breathing.

“Well,” I murmur. “Let round two begin.”

***

It doesn’t take long for round one to go public, because someone leaks the footage. It’s not us. It’s not our team. But the next morning, a headline screams across half a dozen news outlets:MATCHMAKING OR MANIPULATION? Senator Claudia Mallory’s Secret Date with a Tech Philosopher Caught on Camera

The clip is grainy but unmistakable. Mallory laughing. Étienne pouring wine. Their sparring over scallops edited down to a three-second exchange that makes them look like a flirt-heavy rom-com pilot. Olivia storms into my office with her tablet already open.

“PulseMatch,” she says flatly. “They’re behind it. Or someone affiliated. The watermark on the bottom corner is tied to a private beta tool they’ve been testing.”

Margot’s already pulling up our PR dashboard. “It’s trending. We’ve got two hours, max, before the networks start spinning it as scandal.”

“We leak the full version,” I say. “Context, tone, control.”

“And then what?” Margot asks.

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