Page 54 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

“You think,” she calls, “we’re actually going to pull this off? The wedding, the company, the baby?”

I step closer to the divider. “You mean all the things no one else would attempt at once? Yeah. I do.”

There’s a pause. Then her voice, quieter: “I thought I’d feel... more ready.”

“To marry me?”

“To be seen.” Her voice softens. “It’s different when you spend your life being sharp. Strategic. Useful. I’m used to being judged for how I think. Not how I look walking down an aisle.”

I step toward the screen and press my palm to the fabric. “You’re still all of that. Even in silk. Even barefoot. Even when you’re not trying.”

She goes quiet, then says, “You’re not supposed to make me cry before I put on mascara.”

“Sorry,” I whisper. “You just do things to me.”

She steps out, and I swear the world halts. This dress is nothing like the others. Clean lines. Satin that hugs her like it was sewn with her in mind. No beads. No fuss. Just her. Radiant. Real.

“Okay,” she says, watching me. “You’re doing the thing.”

“What thing?”

“The you’re-going-soft-in-the-eyes thing.”

I walk up to her slowly. Take her hand. “You know what I see?”

“What?”

“Our daughter watching this photo in twenty years, knowing exactly how much I loved her mother,” I answer softly.

She blinks hard. “Grayson.”

“Just saying.”

Her fingers tighten around mine.

Madeline claps again. “We have a winner. Pack it in. Nothing else will compete with whatever that moment was.”

***

A few hours later, we stop by the tailor. I’m standing on a low riser in front of a three-way mirror in a charcoal three-piece suit while Margot lounges on a velvet bench, drinking Pellegrino like it’s champagne.

“I have never been so turned on by a vest,” she murmurs.

“Please don’t start that in front of the tailor,” I say through my teeth.

The tailor beams. “I’m flattered.”

Margot rises from the bench and crosses to me, her fingers grazing the lapel of my jacket.

“You know what I love about this look?” she asks, eyes on the mirror.

“That I don’t look like I’m heading into a deposition?”

“No,” she says, voice low. “That it’s the version of you no one else gets to see. The polished one. The one that lets me undress him later.”

I arch a brow. “Later, huh?”

She slides her hand down my chest. “Unless you want to cause a scandal in the tailor’s back room.”

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