20. Grayson
20
GRAYSON
I wake up to Olivia’s text: Did you see the news? Natalia Crane just threw a digital grenade.
By the time I finish reading the headline, I already know the damage is real: MATCHMAKING QUEEN OR FRAUD? Margot Evans and Grayson King Accused of Ethical Breach and Impulsive Vegas Marriage
My jaw tightens as I scroll through the article. A smear campaign disguised as concern, all framed with the glossy polish of a “neutral investigative piece.” Natalia Crane has always played dirty. She’s a rival matchmaker who tried to poach our highest-profile clients the moment the algorithm was compromised, offering whispered promises and glossy guarantees to anyone nervous enough to consider jumping ship. But this? This is tactical. Precise. Designed to hit where it hurts the most. Margot’s credibility.
I find her in the kitchen, staring into her untouched coffee, the tablet on the counter glowing with the same headline. She doesn’t say a word.
“Margot,” I start, but she doesn’t look up.
“They’re saying I’m unstable,” she says quietly. “That I’ve been compromised. That I married you in secret during a reckless Vegas weekend. That I don’t practice what I preach. That we make impulsive, emotionally compromised decisions and can’t be trusted with the future of matchmaking. That I’m unfit to lead.”
“Because you scared them,” I say, moving beside her. “Because you’re better. Because Perfectly Matched is better.”
She gives me a hollow laugh. “It doesn’t matter if it’s true. It’s out there. And now every investor, every client, every future match is going to question if I’m just some cautionary tale wrapped in a power suit.” She looks at me then, and the fight in her eyes is dimmer than I’ve ever seen. “Maybe I should step down. Let the board stabilize. Let them see I’m not the threat.”
“No,” I say. Firm. Final. “You don’t let a vulture define your story.”
She blinks. “Grayson…”
“I’ll handle this.”
When I say it, I mean it. She’s carried this company on her back long enough. She’s fought wars in boardrooms and codebases and bathrooms with pregnancy tests clutched in her hands. She shouldn’t have to fight this alone. So I do what I do best.
But this time, it’s not about the company, not really. It’s about her. About Margot, who’s always been the smartest person in any room, the one who can turn chaos into strategy, algorithms into magic, and yet today, she looks like she’s breaking. And I can’t let that happen.
There’s a part of me that still sees her the way I did when she first walked into my grandfather’s office, unapologetically brilliant, eyes flashing with ambition, shoulders squared against every doubt thrown her way. But now the world’s trying to take that version of her and reduce it to scandal. To shame. Not on my watch.
I will burn this city down before I let them destroy her. Protecting her isn’t about ego. It’s instinct. It’s the only thing I know how to do when everything else feels unstable. So I throw myself into the only battlefield that makes sense to me, damage control, spin, control of the narrative. If I can’t protect her from the storm, I can at least be the one shielding her through it.
I don’t want her to be strong right now. I don’t need her to fight. I want her to rest. To breathe. To know that someone else has her back. So when I say I’ll handle it, I mean it with every cell in my body. And I’m not doing it alone.
I text Olivia: Need you. Now. Crisis level: PR hurricane.
She calls me less than a minute later.
"Tell me what Crane did," she says, already multitasking if the clicks in the background are any sign.
"She’s calling Margot unstable. Accusing us of being reckless, unethical, and impulsive. The Vegas wedding, the algorithm breach, she’s spinning it all into a takedown."
"She’s been waiting for a crack," Olivia mutters. "Now she thinks she’s found one. Let’s remind her what it feels like to pick the wrong side."
Olivia’s loyalty isn’t loud, but it’s lethal. Within the hour, she’s pushing counter-statements to every investor contact we trust and flagging inaccuracies with a precision I forgot to be grateful for.
I handle the external firestorm. She handles the undercurrent. Together, we make damn sure Margot doesn’t fall alone. I’m not just Grayson King, the businessman. Right now, I’m Margot’s firewall. I put on the suit. I dial the press. I call in favors from old allies who owe me more than polite thank-yous. And I make it clear that if Natalia wants a war, she’s about to find out what happens when someone tries to dismantle what we’ve built. Perfectly Matched doesn’t crumble, we fight back.
***
By noon, I’m fielding a dozen requests from journalists who suddenly want to hear our side. Most of them don’t care about the truth, they want a quote to fit the scandal. But I pick the ones who matter, who know what reputational warfare really looks like.
I draft the response myself. No PR spin. No corporate varnish.
From: Grayson King, To: Felicia Browning (NY Weekly), Subject: Re: Vegas Marriage Story, Hi Felicia, Yes, Margot and I got married in Las Vegas. We’d been engaged for months, and like most couples, we chose a moment that felt right for us. Impulsive? Maybe. But dishonest? Never. If the narrative now is that people in love, people who built a company on connection and authenticity, should somehow behave like robots, then we’re happy to challenge that too. Let me know if you want to talk further. I’m available this evening.
– Grayson
I forward the same message to three other outlets: Julian DeWitt at Tech Confidential, Marcy DuPont at The Match Report, and Irene Shay from The Circuit , all of them professionals with reach and at least some integrity.
By two o’clock, Irene replies: From: Irene Shay, Subject: RE: Vegas Marriage Story, Appreciate the clarity, Grayson. We’ll include your full statement. Also, off the record, I’ve seen Crane pull stunts before. Stay sharp.
I smile grimly. That’s all I need. It’s not about hiding. It’s about owning the story before someone else does.
***
By the time I get home, the apartment is quiet. Dim afternoon light spills across the hardwood, and I find Margot curled up on the sofa, a blanket draped over her legs, her hair pulled into a loose knot. She looks up the moment I walk in.
"You handled it?" she asks.
I nod, dropping my phone and keys on the counter. "For now. Olivia’s managing the investor messaging. Press is softening. People are already pivoting to the next scandal."
She exhales, but it’s not quite relief. Just exhaustion.
I move to her, crouch in front of the couch, and take her hand. "You know what I kept thinking about all day?"
She shakes her head slowly.
"The fact that the worst they could come up with was that we got married in Vegas. Like loving you, really loving you, was something to be ashamed of."
She gives a tired smile. "You didn’t tell me it’d be this glamorous."
I grin. "Well, I was thinking... maybe it’s time we do it right. No headlines. No lawyers. No secret Elvis officiant. Just us. Our families. A dress you don’t hate."
Her eyes widen. "Are you saying you want a real wedding?"
I nod. "I want our wedding. Not the rushed, impulsive version people can twist into a scandal. I want vows you remember. Pictures we frame. You walking down an aisle toward me, knowing we’re not hiding from anything."
She’s quiet for a long moment. Then she reaches out and touches my cheek, thumb brushing the corner of my jaw.
"I want that too."
I press my lips to the back of her hand. "Then let’s give them a new story. One they can’t tear down."
She leans in. "Let’s make it unforgettable."
I don't wait for another word. I cup her face and kiss her, slow, deep, deliberate. The kind of kiss that tells her I’m not thinking about PR or press statements anymore. I’m thinking about her. About us. About everything we’ve survived and everything still waiting for us on the other side.
She rises onto her knees, the blanket slipping off her legs as I pull her closer. Her fingers thread through my hair, tugging just enough to make me groan into her mouth. I lift her easily, her legs wrapping around my waist as I carry her to the bedroom. We’ve done this before, but not like this, not after everything. Not with so much unspoken need curling in the space between our bodies.
The second I lay her on the bed, she pulls me down with her, her breath catching as my mouth traces the line of her collarbone. Her shirt is gone in seconds, followed by mine. Skin against skin, we move like a conversation we’ve never stopped having.
"Grayson," she whispers, arching beneath me. "Please."
"I’ve got you," I murmur against her skin. "I always will."
When I slide inside her, it’s not rushed. It’s not frantic. It’s reverent. She clutches at my shoulders, her body meeting mine with a rhythm that’s all heat and surrender. Every thrust, every moan, every soft gasp is a promise. We move together, building something stronger than fury, deeper than fear. Something that doesn’t crumble under scrutiny. Something that lives, steady and whole, between us. And when she falls apart in my arms, when her body clenches around mine and her voice breaks on my name, I follow her with everything I have.
I roll us onto our sides, my arms locked around her as she breathes against my chest. Her skin is slick with heat, her legs still tangled with mine, and I can feel the echo of her heartbeat pounding against me. I brush my fingers down her spine, slow and reverent, and she shivers again, not from cold, but from everything we’ve just given to each other. Her lips find my neck, then my jaw, like she’s not done yet. Like neither of us is.
She tilts her hips against mine, and I’m already hard again. I kiss her, this time deeper, hungrier, the kind of kiss that says round two isn’t a question, it’s a promise. She straddles me, her hair falling around her face as she sinks down onto me, slow and deliberate, her mouth parted in a gasp I swear I’ll never forget.
“Grayson,” she breathes.
I grip her hips and guide her, meeting each roll with a thrust of my cock that makes her eyes flutter shut. The pace builds, heat and hunger and something messier, more consuming. I slide a hand between us, finding her g-spot making her cry out, her nails digging into my chest as she rides the edge. She unravels above me, trembling, pulsing, perfect, and I follow with a loud groan, spilling into her with a force that makes my vision blur.
We collapse together, sticky and breathless, her head resting on my chest, my hand in her hair. Neither of us says a word for a long time, but I know what she’s thinking, because I’m thinking it too.
This, us, isn’t just survival. It’s the reason we fight. Outside, the world might still be on fire. But here, with her, I’ve already won.