Page 47 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

“Then we go on offense.”

I look at both of them. The game changed, but we were born in it. Built for it. Now it’s not just about the match. It’s about the message. And no one outmaneuvers Perfectly Matched on its home turf.

27

MARGOT

Senator Mallory doesn’t yell when she walks into the office. That would be far too ordinary. Instead, she storms in wearing a dove-gray suit and a smile carved from marble, heels clicking like a metronome of doom. Her assistant trails behind her carrying a tablet and what I can only assume is a backup agenda for global domination. Her presence floods the room like a cold front, controlled, deliberate, and impossible to ignore.

I’m standing just off-center near the windows, the soft morning light catching the edge of my blazer. One hand is curled around the edge of the marble table, the other resting low on my hip like I’m trying to ground myself without revealing it. The minute I see her expression, I straighten.

"Did we agree to this headline?" she asks, holding her phone like it personally betrayed her. Her eyes narrow as she reads it aloud. "‘Ice Queen Sizzles in Secret Date’, is this a matchmaking service or a tabloid circus?"

"We didn’t leak it," I say calmly, forcing the tension out of my shoulders as I meet her gaze. "PulseMatchdid, and we’re already two steps ahead."

Grayson appears beside me, coffee in one hand, calm in the other. He leans against the table with that relaxed kind of confidence that disarms almost everyone. Almost.

"We’re releasing the full video," he says. "With context. Edited by our team, framed by our brand."

"Spinning," she corrects, her lip barely twitching.

"Positioning," I counter, stepping forward. I hold out a printed mock-up of the updated campaign header:We’re calling it: Power Meets Precision – How Senator Mallory Is Redefining Compatibility in the Age of Influence.

Her eyes skim it. Then again. I watch her shoulder lift a half-inch higher with approval.

"A little long," she says, "but better."

"It’ll headline every press outlet from here to Brussels by noon," I say. "And it’ll link to our full transparency report on elite onboarding protocols."

She stares at me long enough that I briefly consider faking a fainting spell. Then she nods once.

"Do it. But I want final approval on the pull quotes."

"Done," I lie smoothly, smiling as Grayson slips me a flash drive with the final cut.

"Do it. But I want final approval on the headline."

"Done," I lie smoothly.

***

By the time the new edit is live, we’ve wrapped it in a three-tiered media campaign. Interviews. Quotes. Even a subtle product placement with her signature lipstick in a behind-the-scenes clip. The backlash softens by noon. By five, she’s trending for all the right reasons. Her approval numbers tick upward, and our inboxes flood with media requests. But we know this momentum won’t hold unless we act fast.

The next step is strategic. We schedule a second date for Mallory and Étienne, this time somewhere more public, more symbolic. A museum gala. Art, intellect, flashbulbs. The perfect balance of class and chaos. Olivia updates us from the PR command center, her desk glowing with three monitors and the calm of someone who thrives under pressure.

"We’ve overtaken PulseMatch’s trending tag," she reports. "And several high-profile names have retweeted the footage calling her ‘intimidating in the best way.’"

"Good," I say. "Now we shift the story to us."

Grayson’s already adjusting campaign copy. "We follow up with a client spotlight on one of our elite matches. Get eyes back on the service, not just the senator."

"Which brings us to Mason and Alexandra," Olivia adds. "Their footage from the mixer? Surprisingly compelling."

***

The scene cuts to footage from the rooftop mixer. It’s filmed at dusk, high above the West Village in a boutique penthouse event space that overlooks the Hudson. Floor-to-ceiling windows open onto a rooftop lined with copper planters overflowing with olive trees and string lights that glow like suspended stars. The mood is sophisticated but intimate, like a Vogue editorial had a baby with a Michelin-starred cocktail party.

Alexandra stands by the champagne bar, her posture perfect, her expression unreadable but not unkind. She’s dressed in a charcoal jumpsuit tailored within an inch of its life, the neckline clean, the sleeves dramatic in that quiet, expensive way. She holds her coupe glass like it’s an accessory to a much bigger plan.

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