Page 52 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

It’s dark work. The kind of thing that makes us no better than them if we’re not careful. But there’s a difference between strategy and sabotage. Between using data to build something better, and weaponizing it to tear people down.

We’re on the right side. And I’ll burn our whole system to the ground before I let PulseMatch twist it again.

“Transmission detected,” Olivia says, and just like that, our false lead is out in the wild.

I feel it in my bones: the tide turning.

***

When I finally get home, it’s after midnight. The lights in the living room are low, a soft glow from the lamp beside the couch. Grayson is there, barefoot, still in dress pants, a t-shirt now tugged over his shoulders, one hand resting loosely around a glass of whiskey. His head turns as I close the door behind me.

“War over?” he asks.

“Not yet,” I say, dropping my bag to the floor and toeing off my heels. “But we’ve drawn blood.”

He smiles, slow and lazy. “Good. You look like hell.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” I mutter, but I’m already crossing the room.

His arms are open when I reach him. He pulls me into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and I let my head rest on his shoulder, breathing in the scent of cedar and smoke and something uniquely him.

“You know,” he murmurs against my temple, “every time you walk through that door looking like you’ve just won a hostile takeover, I fall a little harder.”

“That’s dangerous,” I whisper.

He shifts, brushing my hair back. “So are you.”

His hand is on my thigh now, sliding under the hem of my dress, fingers warm and slow and searching. I don’t stop him.

“I missed you,” I say.

“I never stop,” he murmurs, his voice thick.

The kiss is hot and quiet, the kind of contact that doesn’t ask, it demands. I twist to straddle him, our mouths never breaking. My dress slips over my head, landing somewhere on the floor. His hands trace the line of my spine, then lower, anchoring me to him as he presses against the thin lace of my underwear.

“Still tense,” he whispers.

“Fix it,” I breathe.

He does. On the couch, in the hush of our quiet apartment, with the world outside burning and the war inside just beginning, he makes me forget everything but him. The feel of his skin. The way he says my name like a prayer and a curse. The way his thick cock penetrates me without an ounce of mercy. The way I shatter and remake myself around him, and when it’s over, when we’re tangled and breathless and everything’s slower again, I rest my head against his chest and close my eyes. His fingers brush lazily over my bare back as my breathing slows, his touch no longer urgent, just tender, steady. Like a reminder that despite the chaos, I’m not alone in any of this.

Grayson presses a kiss to my shoulder, his voice low and a little rough. “You know you’re going to have to start resting more, right?”

I smile into his chest, even though my body aches in all the best ways. “You just wore me out and now you want to talk about rest?”

“I’m serious,” he says, nudging my chin up with one finger until I’m looking into his eyes. “You’re pregnant, Margot. You’re growing a tiny dictator with your eyebrows and my attitude. You can’t keep burning the candle at both ends like this.”

“Tiny dictator,” I repeat, smirking. “That’s the branding we’re going with?”

“I’ve seen you go full courtroom cross-exam on a floral vendor. That child is already practicing power stances in there.”

Despite myself, I laugh. But he doesn’t let go.

“I mean it,” he says more softly. “I know you. You’re going to try to handle this, the company, the wedding, the media, all of it, without blinking. But you don’t have to anymore. You’ve got me.”

I feel something sharp and warm twist inside me. That thing I never let myself need. That feeling of someone who will carry the weight with you just because they love you.

“I’m not used to being taken care of,” I whisper.

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