Page 68 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

***

The studio is sleek, modern, all glass and chrome with plants so perfectly curated they might be AI-generated. Lights glare from the ceiling. Cameras hover. The host, a man named Jonah Vale with slick hair and a news-anchor voice, greets us with a half-smile that never touches his eyes.

“Mr. and Mrs. King,” he says. “Pleasure. I assume you’ve seen the PulseMatch coverage.”

“You mean the fiction,” I reply, shaking his hand a little too firmly. “Yes. We’ve seen it.”

Margot sits beside me in a cream dress that makes her glow even under fluorescent lighting. Her bump is still small, but real. Defiant. Beautiful.

We’re miked, counted down, and live.

Jonah starts smooth. “So, first of all, congratulations. You’ve announced you’re expecting. That’s exciting.”

“Thank you,” Margot says, voice poised. “We’re thrilled.”

“Some have questioned the timing of the reveal,” he continues. “And whether your personal relationship has blurred your professional ethics.”

“That’s an easy one,” I say, voice low and steady. “Margot and I were engaged. Publicly. Our child is not a secret or a scandal. She’s a blessing.”

“And the claim that you matched yourselves?”

Margot tilts her head. “Wouldn’t that be the best possible endorsement? But no. We didn’t game the system. We met. We clashed. We grew. Our story didn’t start in a lab. It started in conflict, and it evolved into trust.”

Jonah raises an eyebrow. “So you’re denying any algorithm tampering?”

“I’m saying PulseMatch fabricated an internal tool that doesn’t exist,” I say coolly. “And they did it because they’re losing. Losing credibility, losing clients, losing relevance.”

There’s a pause, tension crackling in the air like static.

Margot leans in, her voice softer now. “You can’t algorithm your way into love. You can measure data, sure, but love lives in the margins. In the moments that don’t make sense. We didn’t create the algorithm to manufacture outcomes. We created it to reflect possibility.”

And for the first time all night, Jonah looks like he might believe us.

***

Back at the penthouse that night, the air is thick with adrenaline and exhaustion. Olivia has set up a war room in the living room, three monitors, a half-drunk bottle of champagne, and a wall of sticky notes mapping every headline and response.

“Initial pulse is shifting,” she says. “Half the industry’s calling thePulseMatchleak a PR stunt. Several clients have already messaged to say they’re staying with us. And your segment’s trending—#PerfectlyReal is picking up steam.”

Margot sinks onto the couch with a breath that trembles on the way out. I sit beside her and pull her close.

“Hey,” I whisper. “We did good today.”

“I know,” she says, her voice small. “But it still hurts.”

I kiss her temple. “Then let me be the one who gets loud.”

And I will. Because this isn’t just a business anymore. It’s our future. And I’ll protect it with everything I’ve got.

37

MARGOT

The lights are too bright. Not in a painful way, but in that sharp, artificial glow that makes everything feel more exposed than it really is. The venue smells like expensive florals and fear, a Manhattan rooftop space we’ve used before for elite mixers, now retrofitted into a sleek press conference stage. Brushed steel backdrop. Clean white chairs. Floating florals in muted creams and pale pinks. Controlled elegance.

This time, though, there’s no matchmaking tonight. Just me. And the story I’m about to take back. Across the rooftop, guests trickle in, media contacts, bloggers, fashion editors, investors, even a few skeptical clients looking as if they’ve shown up just to see me stumble. The skyline blazes behind them, all glass and ego. Olivia’s team has roped off the perfect corner of the terrace with tall heaters and warm up-lighting that throws soft gold against the navy sky. A branded step-and-repeat wall looms to one side. They wanted a press release. I gave them a stage.

I stand off to the side, watching the crowd grow. Olivia is two feet away, headset on, clipboard in hand, speaking in low, precise tones to one of the tech guys manning the AV system.

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