Page 60 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

And for now, that’s enough.

We settle onto the couch, the city lights spilling across the living room in long golden streaks. Somewhere down below, a car honks. A dog barks. Life goes on, and up here, we’re suspended in that strange quiet space between what’s ending and what’s about to begin.

Margot reaches for a folded checklist on the coffee table. “There’s still the seating chart. And final playlist approval. And Madeline wants to go over linen textures again.”

I groan. “Not linen textures.”

“She’s in full ‘creative tyrant’ mode.”

I nudge her knee with mine. “And you?”

She smiles, tired but soft. “We’re close. I can feel it. The last pieces are falling into place.”

Outside, the skyline glows. Inside, her fingers find mine.

“Grayson,” she says.

“Yeah?”

“We’re getting married in four days.”

And suddenly, the war doesn’t matter. Only that. Only her.

33

MARGOT

The sky is the exact shade of soft lavender I swore Madeline fabricated for the invitation suite. A warm breeze dances across the hilltops, rustling the white petals strung along the trellises and teasing the chiffon drapes lining the event tent. Beyond the sprawling grounds, a vineyard unfurls in perfect rows, golden with early summer light. The entire property looks like something out of a lifestyle spread, clean gravel paths, sun-dappled olive trees, and a main house that blends French country charm with California opulence.

We’ve officially arrived at Maison Valrose, the private estate we rented for the wedding weekend, and somehow, it’s real. The Friday check-in is supposed to be low-key, just the bridal party, immediate family, and the very determined elite guests who RSVP’d with alarming speed. But even now, standing on the stone terrace in soft heels and a linen dress, watching Grayson talk to his mother under a tree wrapped in fairy lights, it feels like the opening scene of a three-act fairytale. Too beautiful. Too surreal. Too perfect to last.

“I give it three hours before someone cries,” Olivia says, appearing at my side in an all-black jumpsuit, her tablet clutched like a weapon.

“Someone already did,” I reply. “It was Madeline. The florist got the wrong shade of ivory and she threatened to set the peonies on fire.”

“I repeat: three hours.”

Across the courtyard, Mason is laughing at something Alexandra just said. She’s wearing white wide-leg pants and a black silk blouse, her hair up in a sleek knot, and she’s gesturing with a wine glass like she’s about to roast someone to ash. They’ve been orbiting each other since they arrived, close but not touching. It’s very them. Tension wrapped in style.

Meanwhile, Senator Mallory has already commandeered a corner table and is running what can only be described as a soft diplomatic summit over canapés.

“I still can’t believe she agreed to come,” I murmur.

“She said she came for the wine,” Olivia says. “But her dress screams ‘I’m here to network.’”

“God, I love her.”

***

Inside, the main house smells like garden roses and cinnamon-sugar pastries. The kitchen is flooded with golden light, the kind that makes your skin look good no matter how little sleep you’ve gotten. Which is helpful, because I haven’t slept in two nights.

“Did someone put Xanax in the welcome gift bags?” I ask as I dig through a crate of escort cards.

“Just lavender sachets and a threatening note from Madeline about being on time,” Grayson says, entering behind me with a smirk and two sparkling waters.

He looks relaxed. Tan. Ridiculously handsome in a linen shirt rolled to the elbows. The man could’ve stepped out of a cologne ad called Trust Fund Rebel.

“My dad’s already talking to your mother,” he adds. “He asked if the King family tree comes with a printed scandal timeline.”

---