2. Grayson
2
GRAYSON
T he second I see the alert on my phone, I know exactly what she's done. Perfectly Matched has gone live. The algorithm, her algorithm, is out in the wild, making matches faster than my inbox can ping. I swipe through the media coverage, headlines like: The Future Of Love Is Here and Perfectly Matched Launches Revolutionary Compatibility Model .
There's already a glowing quote from a beta couple who claim the algorithm "knew us better than we knew ourselves." One outlet's calling it The Next Frontier of Emotional AI . Another's speculating about IPO potential. It's genius and it's chaos. I close the tab and toss my phone not the couch. She couldn't wait. And yet...I can't help the way my mouth tilts, just a little. Because of course she didn't wait. That's Margot, relentless, brilliant, infuriating, and damn it, I love her for it.
I pace the living room, coffee in hand. from the windows, Manhattan gleams under early light. The city doesn't know it yet, but the rules of modern love have just been rewritten by a woman in heels sharp enough to draw blood and a brain that terrifies most of Silicon Valley. I glance at the framed photo on the bookshelf, Margot and me, a rare candid shot where she's laughing mid-sentence, eyes lit-up, hand wrapped tightly in mine. It was taken the night we got engaged. she's said yes beforeI even finished the question. No hesitation, just certainty. She's always been that way, when she knows, she knows. And now, she knows this algorithm is going to change everything. I finally call her. she picks up on the first ring.
"You didn't even give me a courtesy of a heads-up?" I say, skipping the small talk.
"It was ready. It was the bright moment," she replies, calm but defensive.
"We are supposed to roll it out together."
“We've been ready for three days, Greyson. You wanted to wait until we had media scrips memorized and talking points drills into our spines."
"That's called strategy," I sigh.
"No," she says, "It's called hesitation."
A beat passes. Just enough space for the truth to hang between us.
"You don't trust the algorithm," she adds quietly.
"Not really." "It's not the algorithm I don' trust," I say. "It's the idea that love can be solved like a math equation."
"You think I don't know that? You think I don't ask myself that every time I stare at the data?" She replies.
I hear the fatigue in her voice now. The weight behind the steel and I hate that I didn't hear it sooner.
"I just wanted to do it together," I say, softer now, “not like this." "I know," she whispers. "But sometimes I move fast because I'm scared if I stop, I'll lose my nerve. And I needed to know this worked."
"You didn't need to prove anything to me."
"I wasn't trying to," she says. "I was trying to prove it to myself." That lands harder than it should, because I know that feeling too. The one that says if you stop moving, everything might fall apart. "Next time," I say, "we do it as a team. “That's the deal."
"Deal," she replies. There's a pause, one of those once where I can almost feel her leaning against something, holding her breath the way she does when she's finally letting herself feel the moment. "I love you, King," she says. No drama, just honesty.
I smile, letting the warmth of it settle in my chest. "I know." And yeah, I love her too. God help me, I love the hell out of her, even she she doesn't wait for me. Especially then.
I carry my coffee to the window wand let the light settle over me. The city stretches out like a living thing, restless and glowing and completely unaware that Margot Evans is about to turn it upside down. She's going to be on national television this morning. I already know the segment: a live interview, cameras, light, anchors eager to turn her into a story. the woman who built the future of love. They'll ask about the algorithm, about numbers and patterns and results. But what they won't see, what they'll miss entirely, is the woman underneath all of it. The one who hums when she's concentrating, who always bites the inside of her cheek before she speaks something vulnerable. Who believes, so deeply, that love deserve a better chance. She believes in love like it's a science and a miracle all at once., and she built something extraordinary because of that belief.
And I? I fell in love with her before the code. Long before the platform. Before the projections and the pitch decks and the glowing user data. I loved her when she was Margot, the girl who sat across from me at the boardroom table and challenged everything I thought I knew, with fire in her eyes and logic as her sword. And I still love her now. Fiercely. Constantly. Even when she moves too fast, even when she leaves me behind, chasing stars.
I set my mag down and grab my jacket. She didn't ask me to be there today, but she shouldn't have to. is she's walking into the spotlight, I'll be in the shadows. Steady, waiting, rooted. Because this morning isn't just about the algorithm, it's about her and there's nowhere else I'd rather be.