Page 92 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

“I never thought you did.”

He stands slowly, gathering his coat. “Let me know when you’re ready to take the next step with the expansion. The money’s real. The network is deep. But this…” He gestures to the screen. “…has to be contained.”

Then, more quietly, “You have more to lose than your name now.”

I nod once. It’s not forgiveness. But it’s something.

***

By the time I return to the penthouse, the sun is setting in a haze of coral and lavender beyond the city skyline. Margot is in the kitchen, barefoot again, a silk robe tied lazily at her waist, her hair twisted into a knot she probably forgot she made. A soft playlist drifts from the speakers, soft jazz, because she likes the illusion of effortless cool, even if she’s secretly exhausted.

I pause in the doorway and just watch her for a moment. She's plating something, roasted chicken, a bright salad, a bowl of warm farro. It smells like lemon and rosemary and the kind of comfort that makes you exhale.

“You cooked,” I say, stepping into the room.

She doesn’t turn. “I stress-cooked. You’re welcome.”

I smile, stepping up behind her and sliding my hands to her hips. “You okay?”

She exhales slowly. “No. But I’m better now that you’re here.”

Dinner is slow, cozy, unrushed. Candles flicker in low glass holders, casting soft halos of light across her cheekbones, her collarbone, the gentle curve of her belly. The table is a mix of soft clinks and quiet words, of glances held a few seconds too long and touches that linger.

“You look tired,” she murmurs.

“So do you.”

We’re both quiet for a moment. Then she says, “Did you handle it?”

“We’re close. The leak’s not just a fluke, it’s intentional. But I’ve got eyes on it.”

“Good,” she says, reaching for my hand. “Because I can’t do this alone.”

“You’re not alone.”

She squeezes my fingers, lifts my hand to her lips. “I know. That’s the only reason I’m still standing.”

After dinner, we clean up together, the lights low, the city glowing outside our windows. Her laughter returns gradually, rising like steam. She leans against me at the sink, and I pull her close, brushing a damp curl behind her ear.

“You smell like lemon and victory,” I murmur.

She smiles. “Don’t jinx it.”

Later, we stretch out on the couch, limbs tangled, breath steady. I press my hand to her belly, feeling the soft kick against my palm, and everything slows. We haven’t won. Not yet. But we’re closer. And for now, we’re still standing, together.

50

MARGOT

The conference room is too quiet, too clean. The air conditioning hums softly above us, cold and sterile, and the light pouring in from the floor-to-ceiling windows makes everything feel overexposed, like we’re sitting under interrogation lights instead of preparing for a confrontation.

Grayson stands to my left, tall and unreadable, hands in his pockets, his stance deceptively relaxed. Olivia is to my right, tapping something into her tablet, lips drawn into a line. Across from us, in a low-backed leather chair, sits the person I once called promising. Precise. Loyal.

Ashley Lin. She was fresh out of law school when I first met her. Sharp. Curious. A little overeager. I liked her from the start. She was ambitious, but not loud about it, quick to learn, faster to adapt. I brought her onto our team last year with the confidence that she would grow into a star.

I never thought she’d be the crack in our foundation.

"I didn’t do it to hurt you," she says now, her voice low but steady. "You have to believe that. I thought... I thought you were too close to the company to see what it’s becoming."

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