Page 89 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

He crosses the room and crouches in front of me. “I know.”

“Then stop doing it.”

“I’m trying.”

“Try harder.”

He presses a kiss to my knee, his eyes closing briefly, and I let the silence hold us for a moment longer before standing to refill my tea. Everything is shifting beneath us. But we’re still standing. For now.

***

By late morning, I’ve turned a section of the living room into a war zone of paper, screens, and caffeinated ambition. There are press briefings and client contracts spread across the marble table, a series of color-coded Post-it notes fanned around my laptop like a halo of barely restrained chaos. I’ve been on and off calls since nine, my feet up on a velvet ottoman, one hand rubbing the persistent ache in my lower back while the other types furiously.

Olivia appears on my screen like a tactical commander in a high-stakes war room. Behind her, the office glows with soft light and the blur of motion, staff moving briskly, coffee cups in hand, eyes alert. Her hair is pulled into a sleek ponytail, her tone as clipped and surgical as ever.

“We’re holding,” she says without preamble. “Barely.PulseMatchlaunched a new campaign last night. They’re capitalizing on Eleanor’s comments, calling themselves the more ethical and transparent option.”

I scoff. “Because nothing says integrity like exploiting someone else’s scandal.”

“They’re not naming names,” Olivia says. “But the implication is clear. And it’s spreading.”

“What about clients?”

“Mallory hasn’t responded to our last two emails. Mason postponed his next session without rescheduling. Priya’s keeping an eye on them both.”

“And the media?”

“A few headlines resurfaced about the Vegas wedding. Light shade, mostly speculation. But the tone is turning snide.”

I lean back, resting my hand on my belly again. My daughter kicks, hard enough to make me wince.

“She’s not thrilled,” I mutter.

Olivia lifts an eyebrow. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. Just pregnant. And possibly becoming cinnamon roll–shaped.”

“You’re not allowed to spiral until at least next week,” she says. “I already scheduled my breakdown for Thursday.”

I laugh despite myself, then go quiet. “I think it’s time I speak. Publicly.”

Olivia doesn’t react right away. “You’re sure?”

“I need to control the story. Not react to it.”

She nods, slowly. “We’ll do it carefully. A formal interview, tightly edited. You write your own script. We vet everything.”

“I want it real,” I say. “People need to remember I’m human.”

“And pregnant,” Olivia adds dryly. “That helps.”

“We use what we’ve got,” I say, smiling.

And then we both go quiet. Because we know this isn’t just about spin anymore. It’s about survival.

***

That afternoon, Grayson returns from a call, his sleeves pushed up, his hair slightly rumpled. He looks good in crisis, frustratingly good, but his eyes are tired. He finds me cross-legged on the sectional, the remains of a third decaf tea in front of me and a glowing iPad balanced on my knees.

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