Page 96 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

“Hold a press conference?” I ask.

Margot shakes her head. “Too defensive. Too reactive.”

Crane raises an eyebrow. “Then what?”

“A controlled release,” she says. “We tell the story before they do. Not just about the file, but about us. Our values. Our clients. Frame the leak as a violation of human dignity, not just data theft.”

Olivia pauses, then gives a grudging nod. “It’s bold. Emotional. People eat that up.”

“I’m not looking for sympathy,” Margot says, her voice calm but resolute. “I want people to understand what we stand for. That our matches are more than numbers and metrics. They’re sacred.”

Crane glances between us. “You’re both prepared to put your faces on this? Not just statements or anonymous sources, you two. The couple. The founders. The pregnant CEO.”

I meet Margot’s gaze across the table. “You okay with that?”

She exhales. “We’re already in it. Might as well win it out loud.”

A small smile tugs at Olivia’s lips. “Then I’ll prep the digital release. We go visual. A public letter, followed by the forensic breakdown of Eleanor’s forgery. Screenshots. Video assets. Crane’s document. No drama. Just hard truth.”

“And the legal side?” I ask, turning to Crane.

“I’ll have our counsel file notice tomorrow morning,” he replies smoothly. “Cease and desist followed by a breach-of-contract claim. If she responds, we escalate.”

“And if she doesn’t?” Margot asks.

“Then she goes down silent. Dignity optional.”

***

The hours blur after that. Legal reviews. Data trails. Olivia tracks down the signature embedded in the leaked document’s coding, a small, almost invisible hex tag. It matches one of Eleanor’s former digital consultants. The consultant was quietly rehired last month by a marketing firm connected toPulseMatch.

"It’s there," Olivia says, pointing to the screen. "Digital fingerprint. Time-stamped. Verifiable."

Margot stands at my side, hands clenched around her mug. She hasn’t said much, but I know what she’s feeling. This isn’t about one file, one scandal, one press hit. This is about the future. About whether or not our daughter will inherit something worth believing in.

I look around the table. Crane meets my gaze. "Your next move decides your legacy. Don’t go small."

"We won’t," I say.

I turn to Olivia. "Prepare a full press release. We go public tomorrow. We expose her, ethically, methodically, and loudly. And we let the world see who the real threat to privacy is."

Margot’s hand finds mine under the table. We squeeze once. Then we get to work. Because now it’s not about survival. It’s about legacy. And this time, we’re the ones holding the match.

52

MARGOT

The elevator doors open into a soft burst of florals and laughter. I step out into the rooftop garden of the St. Lucien Club, our baby shower venue for the day, and am immediately overwhelmed by color. Blush pink and sage green balloons float beneath a glass-paneled ceiling, and every table is wrapped in linen and crowned with fresh peonies. There’s a mimosa bar, a non-alcoholic cocktail station, and a three-tiered cake so elegant it could double as modern art.

Olivia waves me over from across the terrace, her usually crisp bun replaced by waves and soft curls. She’s holding a clipboard in one hand and a glass of sparkling juice in the other, looking suspiciously proud of herself.

“You did this?” I ask, stepping into her orbit.

“Please,” she says, brushing invisible lint off her pastel dress. “I had help. Priya did the logistics, Sophie did the playlist, and I gave orders like a benevolent tyrant.”

“I love it,” I whisper. And I mean it.

There are a dozen people already here, our closest circle. No influencers. No reporters. No one with a hidden agenda. Just laughter, soft jazz playing, and enough cookies shaped like baby bottles to feed a small army.

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