Page 53 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

He kisses the corner of my mouth. “Then get used to it.”

And for the first time all day, I let myself sink into that warmth. Into him. Because for now, the war can wait.

30

GRAYSON

The conference room smells like espresso, dry-erase markers, and betrayal. Jared Bloom sits at the end of the long glass table, hands folded, expression unreadable. Across from him, Olivia is all power posture and silence. Margot stands near the window, backlit by morning light and barely restrained fury. Me? I lean against the wall with my arms crossed, watching him like a hawk watches a rat.

“You want to explain,” I say, “whyPulseMatchjust happened to launch a campaign using proprietary data you accessed at 11:43 p.m. three nights ago?”

Jared doesn’t flinch. “I wasn’t working with them.”

I let out a sharp breath. “Sure. And I moonlight for HeartBridge.”

“I’m not lying.” He finally meets Margot’s gaze. “They approached me months ago. I said no. Then they tried to blackmail me, threatened to expose something from my past that never happened. I didn’t know what to do, so I agreed to send over junk. Red herrings.”

Margot steps forward, voice calm but lethal. “So you fed a rival company partial truths and garbage to what, buy time?”

“I thought if I sent them enough noise, they’d think I was useful. I figured it gave us a chance to track them from the inside.”

“You didn’t tell us,” Olivia says flatly.

“Because I didn’t know who I could trust. What if it wasn’t justPulseMatch? What if someone here was working with them?”

My gaze hardens. “And now you want credit for protecting us?”

“No,” he says. “I want to make it right.”

We’re quiet for a beat. Then Margot says, “Effective immediately, you’re suspended. We’ll verify every claim. If there’s truth in this, you’ll have a chance to come back. If not…”

“We bury you,” I finish.

Jared swallows. Nods. Security escorts him out.

When the door clicks shut, Olivia exhales. “He’s either the most paranoid loyalist I’ve ever seen… or the dumbest double agent in history.”

“Let’s prepare for both,” Margot says. “We’ve got a wedding to survive before the next PR ambush.”

And just like that, the real war begins, lace, champagne, and all.

***

By noon, we’re at a private atelier in SoHo, because according to Madeline, “If Margot walks down the aisle in anything off-the-rack, the wedding gods will strike us all down.”

The studio is bathed in soft natural light, floor-to-ceiling mirrors, and racks of gowns that cost more than some people’s starter homes. Margot stands on a pedestal in front of the central mirror, wrapped in ivory silk and low-key panic.

“I feel like a meringue,” she says.

“You look like a goddess,” I counter, adjusting my cuffs from the leather couch across the room.

She glances at me in the mirror. “You’re biased.”

“Extremely.”

Madeline claps from the corner. “Try the structured column next. Less dessert, more fashion assassin.”

Margot disappears behind a screen. I cross the room and wait, listening to the soft rustle of fabric.

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