Page 55 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

I catch her wrist gently. “You’re insatiable.”

“I’m marrying you,” she says. “Might as well enjoy my investment.”

We both laugh. But there’s something more in her eyes as she looks at me, not just desire, but something deeper. A kind of stillness.

“You’re really doing this,” she says. “You’re really all in.”

“There’s no halfway with you,” I say.

She rests her hand against my heart. “You make me feel... safe. And seen. I didn’t know I needed both.”

I cover her hand with mine. “And you make me feel like I’m not just a name, or a title, or someone’s legacy. You make me feel like I belong.”

She lifts onto her toes and kisses me, soft, slow, grounding. And in that quiet, velvet-lined tailor shop, it feels like everything else fades away. Just her. Just me. Just this life we’re about to build.

***

Later, in the back of the car as city lights flicker past, she rests her head on my shoulder.

“I still don’t know how to relax,” she whispers.

“You don’t have to,” I say. “You just have to lean. I’ll carry the rest.”

She kisses my jaw. And for the first time in days, there’s no fight in her touch, only peace.

31

MARGOT

The invitations are out. The dress is altered. The cake is chosen, though Madeline nearly murdered someone over the buttercream tier, and the venue is locked, and I am officially five days away from becoming Margot King.

The office smells like lavender tea and printer ink, the late afternoon sunlight slanting through the tall windows ofPerfectly Matched HQ, painting warm gold across the hardwood floors. The wedding binder sits open on the conference table beside my laptop, a collage of swatches, guest lists, and seating diagrams designed to test the limits of my mental stamina. Olivia stands by the window, a digital goddess in black, her tablet flashing with RSVPs, venue specs, and a horrifying spreadsheet labeled “Madeline’s Flower Timeline.”

“Catering?” she asks, eyes not leaving the screen.

“Confirmed. Lobster ravioli and filet. I caved to Grayson’s obsession with truffle foam.”

“Photographer?”

“Madeline threatened to fire me from my own wedding if I didn’t hire her preferred Vogue freelancer.”

“Cake?”

I pause. “You do not want to reopen the cake conversation.”

Olivia gives me a dry smile. “Copy that.”

The atmosphere in the room feels charged, like the final calm before takeoff. For the first time, I’m not overwhelmed, I’m ready. Not just for the ceremony, or the first dance, or the ten thousand photos. But for the after. The real stuff.

“I think I’m actually excited,” I say quietly.

Olivia glances up, surprised. “For the wedding?”

“For the marriage,” I admit. “I didn’t think I’d ever say that.”

She arches a brow. “You mean to tell me Margot Evans, the woman who once called marriage a ‘socially reinforced merger of co-dependent behaviors’—is voluntarily entering into a romantic contract?”

I give her a flat look. “That quote was taken out of context.”

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