19. Margot
19
MARGOT
G enevieve saw the notebook. I’m almost certain she read it. I didn’t catch her in the act, but I feel it in my bones. In the way she smiles as she sips her tea, all teeth and trouble. In the way she said, "And maybe later we can talk about how I’d style your baby bump, hypothetically, of course," like it’s a dare wrapped in silk. Her words hit me like a slap wrapped in chiffon.
I laugh, too loud, too sharp, and nearly drop my tea. My face burns, and I feel Grayson stiffen beside me. Genevieve Clarke doesn’t say anything without intention. And if she sees that notebook, if she reads even a single line, I might as well draft the press release now.
After Genevieve leaves, I pace the hallway of the cabin like it’s a war room, arms crossed tight over my chest, the silence broken only by the occasional groan of the old wooden floorboards beneath my steps. Every scenario plays in my mind. A cryptic tweet. A blind item on Deuxmoi, an anonymous gossip account that specializes in celebrity rumors and scandalous tips, the kind that always sound just vague enough to be denied but specific enough for the internet to explode. A very suspicious tip dropped anonymously to a gossip columnist. The woman once turns an influencer breakup into a weeklong media circus. What would she do with this? The thought makes my stomach turn.
Grayson slides the door open, his silhouette framed by the fading mountain light. The soft creak of wood knocks me out of my spiraling thoughts, dragging me back into the moment. He doesn’t say anything right away. Just leans against the frame, watching me, like he knows exactly where my mind’s been wandering.
"We should head back to Manhattan," I say quietly. "Tomorrow. Maybe even tonight."
He steps inside, his brow furrowed. "You sure? I thought the point of hiding out here was to give you space."
"It was." I stand, crossing to him, resting my palm against his chest. "But the algorithm’s fixed. The leak has been contained, for now, and if Genevieve says anything, I want to be ready to respond, not holed up in a cabin pretending it’ll all blow over."
He nods slowly. "Alright. If you’re ready, I’m with you."
We pack in a kind of practiced silence, like we’ve done this a hundred times before, except this time, it’s different. There’s weight to every motion. Every folded sweater, every zipped bag, feels like a quiet declaration of moving forward. Grayson loads the car while I double-check the back bedroom, making sure the notebook is buried deep in my suitcase. I pause at the window for a moment, watching the light disappear behind the trees.
"You okay?" he asks as I slip into the passenger seat.
I nod. "I just want to get back. I want to walk into that building with my head high. Fix the damage. Finish what I started."
He reaches for my hand across the center console. "And I’ll be right there, beside you."
The drive back is quiet, headlights cutting through the dark like a path ahead I didn’t realize I needed. One I’m finally ready to take.
***
The next morning, sunlight spills across the floor of our Manhattan apartment, and everything feels sharp with purpose. We’re unpacking what little we brought, folding sweaters and untangling chargers, when Grayson looks up from his duffel bag.
"You’re quiet," he says. "That usually means you’re planning to burn something down."
"Not burn," I murmur, folding a cashmere sweater with a little more force than necessary. "Just... disinfect."
He smirks. "You mean Alana and the traitor formerly known as Jared."
I meet his eyes. "They knew exactly what they were doing. Sabotaging the algorithm? Undermining everything we’ve built? They wanted to destroy Perfectly Matched from the inside."
"And they underestimated you."
"They always do." I set the sweater aside. "HR has the files. Legal’s already flagged the violations. By noon, they’ll be out and scrubbed from our systems."
Grayson steps closer, his expression softening. "You okay?"
"No," I admit. "But I will be."
He pulls me into his arms, and for a few seconds, I let myself be held.
"Let me know if you want me in that meeting," he says.
I lean back just enough to meet his gaze. "If I need backup, you’ll be the first call. But this one? I want them to see me. Just me. The woman they tried to bury."
He nods, proud. "Then go get them, Evans."
I kiss him once, brief and certain, and turn toward the door. It’s time to take back everything they tried to ruin. The first thing I do is make sure Alana and her accomplice are dealt with. HR finalizes their immediate termination, legal handles the NDA violations, and security revokes their credentials before the ink dries on their exit paperwork. I don’t look back.
Then, I spend the next two days holed up in the lab with Sophie, pouring over every corrupted line. We rebuild what they try to ruin. Rewrite the predictive modules. Recalibrate the compatibility tier system. Run validation tests and stress simulations until we’re half-blind and dizzy. And finally, the results start coming in clean.
The algorithm is back, and it flawlessly matches me with Grayson. I stare at the latest report, the numbers glaring at me like a dare. Ninety-eight point seven percent compatibility. Emotional resonance index: off the charts. Behavioral overlap: seamless. Predictive longevity: unmatched. Even the conflict resolution probability, which dips after the inheritance debacle, has recovered. Every piece of data screams one thing: he’s the right match.
But love isn’t a formula. And trust isn’t something I can calculate. It’s something I choose, again and again. And with Grayson, I do.
He knows about the pregnancy. He’s known since the night I couldn’t hide it anymore, since the moment I let him hold that truth in his hands alongside me. There’s nothing unspoken between us. No lingering secrets. No dragons in the dark. Only this fragile, growing thing between us, steady and honest and terrifying in its depth. And if Genevieve leaks it, if this explodes into something public before we’re ready, I don’t know if we can survive it.
I’m not scared of being pregnant. I’m not even scared of becoming a mother. I’m scared of the headlines. Of the judgment. Of what people will say when they realize the founder of the most prestigious matchmaking company in the country didn’t plan her own match. That the woman who built her reputation on perfect timing and compatibility let something so profoundly human and messy happen without strategy or script. I know what the public can do to women like me, women who dare to be both successful and vulnerable. One headline, one viral moment, and everything I’ve built could be reduced to gossip and scandal.
I close the report and push away from the desk, my shoulders aching with tension I don’t realize I’m carrying. The apartment is quiet now. Grayson is in the other room, probably answering emails or checking on the board meeting prep, giving me space the way he always seems to know I need it.
I don’t know if I should tell him, about the leak, about what I fear Genevieve might do. About how scared I am, not just of the media, or the fallout, but of what it means to be this vulnerable, this exposed. I helped build Perfectly Matched to help people find something real. And somehow, in the process, I find it too. The question is: do I have the courage to keep it? Because the algorithm may not lie, but it also doesn’t have to face the press, or watch its private life dissected in headlines. It doesn’t have to stand on the front lines when the judgment comes, when the media twists the narrative into something cheap and scandalous. It doesn’t have to live with the weight of being a woman in power who made a choice that doesn’t fit the story the world wants to tell. But I do.