Page 86 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

“I’ve survived board takeovers, press scandals, and your death glare,” he says. “But this waiting room? This is hell.”

I laugh, soft and startled. It feels good. Like a pressure valve letting go. A nurse calls my name. We rise together.

The room is small, bright, clinical. I undress behind a curtain while Grayson awkwardly studies the laminated anatomy posters on the wall. When I settle back onto the exam table, he takes my hand without being asked. He holds it tightly, like there’s something he needs to anchor to.

The ultrasound tech is young, cheerful, wearing lavender scrubs and a messy bun that defies gravity.

“Let’s take a look at baby,” she says, rolling the machine closer.

The screen flickers to life. The wand is cold on my skin. I suck in a breath. And then…There she is. Perfect. Curled. Moving. Grayson’s breath catches.

The tech narrates softly, head circumference, heartbeat, position. She adjusts the sound and fills the room with the pulsing rhythm of our daughter’s heart. Steady. Strong. Alive. Grayson leans forward slightly. His thumb strokes the back of my hand.

“She’s big,” he says softly, almost to himself.

“She’s perfect,” I say.

His eyes shine, but he blinks fast. Still not used to showing too much. But I see it. All of it.

“Would you like a photo?” the tech asks.

“Yes,” we say at the same time.

She smiles. As she finishes up, I glance at Grayson. He’s still staring at the screen. Still watching like it’s the only thing that matters. And maybe it is.

***

Later, as we walk through the lobby hand in hand, I feel lighter. Not because the world outside has stopped throwing punches. But because for the first time in days, the fear inside me isn’t louder than the hope. He squeezes my hand. “You were right.”

I lift a brow. “I usually am. About what?”

“About the truth. About needing it.”

I lean into him as we step out into the sunshine. “Good. Because we’re not done.”

He stops walking. Turns to face me.

“Not done?”

I smile. “No. We’re just getting started.”

47

GRAYSON

The private club sits quietly on a side street in Midtown Manhattan, almost invisible to anyone who doesn’t know exactly where to look. It’s built into a row of old townhouses, its entrance framed by ivy-covered brick and a polished brass door with no sign, just the subtle elegance of a place that doesn’t need to announce its importance.

I arrive ten minutes early. Not because I want to, but because I need control, over something. Over anything. My breathing. My posture. The way my tie feels too snug against my throat, no matter how I adjust it. I nod to the host at the front desk and give the name I was told to use. He gestures for me to follow.

The corridor is lined with oil paintings, dark velvet, and the soft hush of old money. We move past men in tailored suits whispering into whiskey glasses and women in silk draped across settees like they were born there. It’s the kind of place my grandfather once thrived in. The kind of place I spent years learning to navigate.

The private room they’ve reserved is intimate and dim, the walls paneled in dark walnut, the fireplace lit with a low flame. The scent of aged scotch and smoke hangs in the air like memory.

I take the far seat in the corner booth, positioning myself with a full view of the door. I wait. And the longer I wait, the louder the past becomes. My mother’s voice in crisp conference calls. My grandfather’s sermons about legacy. All of it layered beneath the silence pressing against the walls of this room. And then the door opens. He walks in without hesitation.

There’s something achingly familiar in the angles of his face, subtle echoes of my own, like a shadow I’ve never noticed was following me until now. He’s tall, probably six-foot-one, and his hair, though mostly black, is threaded with silver that catches the firelight. His suit is impeccable, charcoal wool, perfectly tailored, with the quiet confidence of someone who’s had power for a long time. He stops a few feet from the table.

“Grayson,” he says, his voice low and steady, carrying none of the theatricality I feared and all the gravity I didn’t expect.

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