Page 66 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

Grayson brushes his thumb under my eye, catching a tear. “Hey,” he says, voice soft. “You okay?”

I nod, but it’s more than that. Something clicks into place. Something quiet, but strong.

“I think it’s time,” I say.

“For what?”

I sit up slowly, still holding the picture Jules gave me. It’s blurry and beautiful and overwhelming. “To tell people. About the baby. About her.”

Grayson doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t hesitate. “You sure?”

I nod again. “I’m tired of hiding, of pretending my life is this polished, curated thing that fits into a headline. I’m not ashamed. I’m proud. We made this little human, and she’s already the best thing I’ve ever done.”

There’s a pause, the kind that hangs in the air like it needs space to land.

Grayson shifts beside me, still holding my hand. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted this?”

I glance at him, surprised.

“Not just the baby,” he says, eyes shining now. “You. This life. The mess of it. I used to think I had to build something perfect before I could deserve something real. And then you walked in, loud, brilliant, impossible, and wrecked every plan I had, and thank God for that.”

I swallow hard. “You wrecked me right back.”

He smiles, pulling me gently into his arms. “Then we’re two disasters who found the right kind of chaos.”

I rest my head against his chest, letting his heartbeat settle my own.

“Do you think we’ll be good at this?” I whisper.

He doesn’t hesitate. “No doubt in my mind.”

“And if I panic? If I screw it up?”

“Then I’ll be right here. Screwing it up with you. Loving you through it.”

I let out a watery laugh. “God, I love you.”

“I love you more,” he says, kissing the top of my head. “And I love her already, too.”

We sit there in that quiet room, wrapped in paper gowns and soft light and this fierce, terrifying, incredible love. And I know, truly, finally know, we’re ready.

36

GRAYSON

The morning of the reveal feels strangely quiet. Not literally. The city’s still howling down below, taxis blaring, some jackhammer chewing through concrete a block away. But inside the penthouse, it’s a rare kind of still, the hush that comes just before you hit send on something that could change everything.

Margot’s curled up on the couch, barefoot in leggings and one of my sweaters, hair twisted into a knot she hasn’t touched since breakfast. Her phone is face-down on the coffee table like it’s a grenade. She hasn’t said much since Olivia finalized the post. I walk over, mug in hand, and set it down beside her. Decaf. For once.

“You okay?” I ask gently.

She looks up at me with those storm-blue eyes and nods. “Yes. No. I mean… I want this. We decided this.”

“But now it’s real.”

She gives a dry laugh. “Now it’s hash-tagged.”

I sit beside her, sliding my arm behind her shoulders. Her body leans into mine like second nature.

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