43. Margot
43
MARGOT
E leanor doesn’t waste time. The moment Grayson’s phone rings, the air between us tightens, stretched thin by the weight of what we already know is coming. His hand clenches around the device, his jaw locking as he stares at the name flashing across the screen. For a long, excruciating second, neither of us moves. Neither of us breathes. Because we both understand that whatever she has to say will be calculated, precise, and designed to inflict maximum damage.
Grayson exhales slowly, then answers the call, his voice controlled but cold. “Eleanor.”
I watch him carefully, my pulse hammering as I try to read the shifting tension in his posture. He listens in silence, his grip on the phone tightening until his knuckles turn white. And then, finally, his voice drops to something lethal, something sharp enough to cut through steel.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
A pause. Something dark flickers across his expression, something that sends a chill down my spine. Then, without another word, he ends the call. The silence that follows is deafening, pressing in on us like a storm about to break.
I take a cautious step closer. “What did she say?”
Grayson doesn’t answer immediately. His shoulders remain rigid, his gaze fixed on some invisible point in the distance, as if he’s trying to will away the inevitable. When he finally looks at me, his blue eyes are unreadable, but the sharp edge of betrayal lingers just beneath the surface.
“She’s calling an official emergency board meeting,” he says, his voice eerily calm. “Tomorrow morning.”
My stomach tightens, dread curling through me like a slow-burning fuse. “She’s not wasting any time.”
“She doesn’t have to.” His laugh is humorless, bitter. “She has Daniel Whitmore locked in as her replacement. She’s claiming that Perfectly Matched needs stable, experienced leadership after all the recent…internal chaos.”
My breath catches. “She’s framing you.”
His gaze darkens, the muscles in his jaw tightening. “Not just me.” Something in the way he says it, low, controlled, heavy with unspoken meaning, makes my heart stutter.
I step closer. “Grayson, what else did she say?”
He hesitates, and the hesitation alone is enough to confirm my worst fears. He turns away, running a hand through his hair before gripping the edge of the counter, as if bracing himself for impact. When he finally speaks, the words are clipped, like they taste bitter coming out of his mouth.
“She’s going public.”
The floor tilts beneath me. I blink. “What?”
Grayson exhales sharply, his back still turned to me. “She’s going to leak the truth about my father.” His voice is rough, strained. “Aboutme.”
The words sink in like ice water pouring down my spine. She’s exposing him. The secret he never even knew about until recently, the truth that Charles King isn’t his biological father, that the legacy Grayson has built his entire life around is, in the eyes of the law, not his by blood.
“She wants to erase me,” he says bitterly. “Not just from Perfectly Matched . Fromeverything.”
My entire body tenses, fury rising so fast and so fiercely that I can barely see straight. Eleanor isn’t just trying to take his position. She’s trying toruinhim. She’s coming for his identity, his reputation, the foundation ofwhohe is. And she’s not stopping until he has nothing left.
The energy inside Perfectly Matched has shifted. The air crackles with urgency, the hum of voices and ringing phones blending into the chaotic symphony of a company preparing for war.
The second Olivia hears the news, she launches into crisis-management mode, her fingers flying over the keyboard as she pulls up press contacts, legal analysts, and every strategic move we have left.
“The media hasn’t picked it upyet,” she says, pacing at the front of the conference room, “but if Eleanor already has the story lined up, it’s only a matter of time before it breaks.”
Grayson sits at the end of the long table, silent. He hasn’t spoken much since the call. His usual confidence, his sharp wit, the barely concealed arrogance that makes him, it’s all locked away behind a carefully constructed wall. I hate seeing him like this. I hate thatsheis doing this to him.
Olivia adjusts her glasses, her tone sharp. “We need to get ahead of this before it spirals.”
I nod, shifting into strategy mode. “We take control of the story before she does.”
Grayson lets out a sharp breath, finally speaking. “You meanspinit.”
Olivia shrugs. “Welcome to PR, King. The truth doesn’t matter, only thestorypeople believe.”
He exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face. “Great.”
I hesitate for half a second before speaking, before pushing forward even though every instinct in me is screaming that there are parts of this I can’t fix. “Grayson…”
He lifts his gaze, and for the first time in forever, I see something in his expression that terrifies me. Doubt. Uncertainty. The kind of vulnerability that he never shows, not to me, not to anyone.
I take a breath. “We don’t let her win.”
For a long moment, he just looks at me. Then, finally, he nods.
I am finally in my apartment but sleep refuses to come. I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, the city’s glow filtering through my curtains in soft, fractured patterns. The distant hum of traffic is constant, an unbroken rhythm that should be comforting, but instead, it only makes the silence inside my apartment feel heavier. I turn onto my side, pulling the blanket higher, but it doesn’t help. The weight pressing against my chest isn’t something a warm bed can fix. My mind won’t stop replaying today.
The tension in Grayson’s shoulders when he realized Eleanor was coming for him. The way his hands clenched into fists as he tried to hold himself together. The crack in his voice when he said, she wants to erase me. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the memory away. Grayson King doesn’t doubt himself. He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t fold under pressure. But today, he looked like a man standing on the edge of something dangerous. Something that, if he falls, he might not be able to climb back from. The thought makes my stomach twist. I push the blankets off, frustration simmering beneath my skin, and head to the kitchen.
The apartment is too quiet, too still. I pour myself a glass of wine and lean against the counter, the cool marble grounding me. I should leave him alone. I should give him space to process everything. But I can’t stop thinking about the way he looked at me today, like he wasn’t sure if there was anything left of himself to fight for. Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab my phone and type out a message: Are you okay?
I hesitate, my thumb hovering over the send button. If I send this, I’m crossing a line. Not a professional one, we burned that bridge a long time ago, but a personal one. A line where caring about him becomes something deeper, something I can’t control. But the truth is, I already crossed that line the moment I let him kiss me again. The moment I let myselfwanthim again. Before I can overthink it, I press send. The three dots appear immediately. Then they disappear. Then they reappear. My heart pounds as I watch the screen, waiting. Then…
Grayson: Not even close.
The breath I didn’t realize I was holding slips out in a slow, uneven exhale. I stare at the words for a long moment, my fingers tightening around my phone. I don’t know what I was expecting, but that, his honesty, his lack of pretense, makes my chest ache. Another message appears.
Grayson: I don’t know what to do.
I swallow hard, my grip tightening. Then, after a long pause…
Grayson: Can I come over?
My pulse stumbles. My fingers tremble slightly as I type back the only answer I know I want to give. I type: Yeah.
The second I hit send, my heart slams against my ribs. Because I know exactly what this means. Grayson doesn’t ask for help. He doesn’t reach out. He doesn’tneedpeople. But tonight, he needs something real. Something solid. Somethingme. And the terrifying part? I don’t think I want to stop him.