Page 84 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

I sit at the end of the table, my grandfather’s old seat. The one he ruled from. The one my name was supposed to earn me. My fingers curl around the edge of the chair’s arm, gripping the polished wood as Olivia taps a control panel. The screen flares to life with waiting faces, investors, advisors, one international journalist who somehow got the invite. And then Margot enters.

She’s wearing a navy silk blouse, loose but structured, her hair twisted back, skin glowing despite the chaos. One hand rests protectively over her bump. The other holds a folder that she drops calmly in front of her as she takes the seat beside me.

She doesn’t even glance my way. She’s in war mode. And somehow, watching her speak, firm, poised, brilliant, it feels like a slap and a balm all at once. Because I’m not beside her. Not really. Not yet.

I zone in and out through the meeting. I catch phrases, “strong fundamentals," "temporary disruption," "long-term confidence." I nod when expected, press my lips together when someone implies I’ve compromised the brand. But it’s Margot who speaks with fire.

"Perfectly Matchedwas never about lineage," she says evenly. "It was about building something for people who were tired of being told they didn’t belong. You’re not investing in a name. You’re investing in a vision. A living, breathing legacy of intention.”

The room quiets. Even the screen. Someone exhales. And I look at her like she’s the only lighthouse in a storm I created by being born. After, I escape to the top floor. The garden lounge. The one we rarely use anymore. It’s cold up here. Wind pushing through the hedges like it’s trying to warn me of something. I sit on the edge of the stone bench beneath the copper trellis, elbows on my knees, hands laced together.

There’s a letter in my jacket pocket. I haven’t opened it. It’s one of the only things Eleanor ever wrote me that wasn’t typed or cold or passed through a lawyer. I found it when I went searching for anything, anything that could give me a name. A clue. A lie worth untangling.

My phone buzzes, but I don’t check it. Because the last time I picked up a message, the world found out that the man who raised me, the one who gave me his name, wasn’t my father. And I don’t know if I can stomach another discovery.

Footsteps. I don’t turn around. But I know it’s her. Margot sinks onto the bench beside me slowly. Her hand finds my thigh. Not possessively, just there. Grounding. Real.

“I didn’t want to speak,” I say quietly.

“I know.”

Silence.

Then, her voice, low and sure. “You don’t have to protect the company from the truth.”

“I’m not trying to protect the company,” I murmur. “I’m trying to protect you.”

She turns to face me. Her eyes shine, not wet, not soft. Just clear. Knowing.

“Too late,” she says. “You already gave me your heart.”

I laugh once. It sounds broken. “Don’t remind me. I think I handed it over while yelling at you in a boardroom.”

“That was our foreplay,” she says with a faint smile.

“God, we’re terrible at normal.”

“We don’t need normal,” she says. “We just need each other.”

And for the first time all day, I believe that might still be true.

***

Later, I sit alone in our bedroom, the city glowing like a string of fire beneath the windows. Margot’s curled on the couch in the living room, replying to Olivia. I can hear the soft sound of her fingers on the screen, the occasional huff of irritation, the whisper of movement from the baby kicking against her ribs.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I almost ignore it. Almost. Then I see the subject line:I know who your father is. Let’s talk.There’s no name. Just a phone number and one sentence beneath it: He’s alive. And he knows about you.

I sit perfectly still. Not breathing. Not blinking. Not sure what to feel except this dull, rising echo of every question I was too afraid to ask until now. And for the first time, I whisper it out loud:

“Who the hell am I?”

46

MARGOT

The city glimmers beneath our penthouse like it doesn’t know the world is crumbling, or maybe it does, and just doesn’t care. Buildings stretch into the haze of late afternoon, their glass facades catching the light in fractured gold. Below, traffic hums, indifferent. Constant.

I’m seated in the corner of the living room, laptop closed, hands resting on my belly. She’s kicking again. Not wildly. Not angrily. Just enough to remind me she’s here. That something new and real is growing, even while the past claws at the present with bloodied nails.

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