23. Margot
23
MARGOT
G rayson finds me in the middle of a floral mood board crisis. I’m standing in our living room, surrounded by swatches, digital renderings, and a wedding planner who looks like she’s three hours away from starting a turf war with a linen supplier.
He walks in holding two coffees and an amused grin. "Tell me this is the color-coded battlefield I was promised."
I grab one of the cups. "Madeline says eucalyptus reads as ‘too funeral’ next to ivory roses. I told her that’s the mood I’m going for."
He kisses the top of my head. "Well, while you two debate which shade of cream is the least depressing, I thought I’d tell you we’ve just onboarded two new VIPs."
I perk up. "Anyone we know?"
"Alexandra Devaux. Fashion mogul, sharp as hell. Her previous dates have included a watch collector, a Hemingway-quoting surgeon, and a guy who asked her how much she benches."
I blink. "Yikes."
"Oh, and Mason Wolfe. Former Formula One driver, current media investor. Wants someone who can outdrink him and win at chess."
"Sounds like he needs a therapist, not a match."
"We get that a lot," he says, sipping his coffee. "But trust me, they’re both interesting."
We don’t have much time to talk further, because it’s ultrasound day. We take the elevator down to the parking garage, Grayson carrying my tote bag like it’s made of glass. He keeps sneaking glances at me, like he’s trying not to say something outrageous and failing miserably.
“Do you think they’ll slip and accidentally reveal the gender?” he asks as the elevator dings.
I arch a brow. “You promised you didn’t want to know.”
“I don’t. But also... I kind of do. I mean, come on. If we’re having a mini you, I need time to emotionally prepare for someone who can out-argue me in diapers.”
“If it’s a mini you, we’ll need a house with reinforced furniture and a dedicated ‘I told you so’ jar,” I fire back.
Grayson laughs. “Either way, this kid’s going to be terrifying in the best possible way.”
“And very well-dressed,” I add. “Because I already bookmarked six gender-neutral onesie boutiques. I’m nothing if not committed.” The car is already waiting, sleek and quiet, and he opens the door for me like it’s still our first date.
The clinic is on the Upper East Side, tucked between a wine bar and a bookstore with a corgi in the window. Inside, it smells like lavender and wealth. There are glossy magazines fanned out on the table, a fiddle-leaf fig in the corner that looks better than most of my hair days, and a receptionist who offers me sparkling water with a lemon wedge.
I’m halfway through filling out the forms when Grayson nudges me.
“Margot,” he whispers, “Isn’t that Senator Mallory?”
I glance up, and oh god, it is. Senator Claudia Mallory, currently spearheading a tech regulation bill that could gut half the matchmaking industry if it passes, is sitting three chairs down. Reading Town & Country like she’s not a walking policy grenade. She looks up. Our eyes meet. And then she smiles.
“Margot Evans?” she says brightly, rising with the grace of a woman who filibustered in heels. “How serendipitous. I didn’t have you pegged as someone who needed... this kind of visit.”
Grayson stiffens beside me, his politician-charm smile glued firmly in place.
“Oh,” I say, already sweating. “Well, you know. Just here for moral support. A friend. Very pregnant. Definitely not me."
“I see,” Senator Mallory says, her gaze sweeping down to my very definitely maternity-approved dress and the clipboard with my name on it. “And your... friend?”
Grayson doesn’t miss a beat. “She’s shy. Very private. Doesn’t like paperwork.”
“Mm. Understandable. And are you often the moral support in matching floral socks and a Dior tote?”
I make a strangled noise that might be laughter, or panic.
“We like to color coordinate for our... business brand cohesion,” I say. “Very startup of us.”
She tilts her head like a hawk eyeing a particularly nervous mouse. “I always thought Perfectly Matched ran on data and discretion. Fascinating to see such... hands-on involvement.”
Grayson clears his throat. “It’s a Tuesday. We try to make them interesting.”
Thankfully, the nurse appears right then, calling my name.
“That’s us!” I practically yell, grabbing Grayson’s arm and yanking him toward the hallway.
“Pleasure seeing you, Senator,” Grayson calls politely over his shoulder.
“Likewise,” she says. “Do tell your friend congratulations.”
I don’t look back, because if I do, I’m ninety percent sure she’ll be scanning my retinas and tracking my blood pressure in real time. Grayson leans close as we walk.
“We are so bad at lying.”
“You think she bought it?” I whisper.
“She’s a senator,” he whispers back. “She probably has three different surveillance apps tracking our wombs.”
I snort-laugh and the tech gives us a curious glance. Nothing to see here.Just a couple building an empire, hiding a baby, dodging federal oversight, and trying to plan a real wedding after drunkenly tying the knot in Las Vegas, because obviously, we like to keep things simple around here.Totally normal Tuesday.
***
The nurse leads us down a hushed hallway, all white walls and pale wood accents. The ultrasound room is surprisingly cozy, dim lighting, a lavender diffuser puffing gently in the corner, and a small screen mounted on the wall like we’re about to watch a very exclusive premiere.
There’s a changing nook behind a curtain where I switch into one of those pale blue paper gowns that makes everyone look like they’ve been gently unwrapped like a deli sandwich. I fold my clothes into a neat pile and slide onto the padded table, the paper beneath me crinkling in protest.
Grayson stands beside me, adjusting the height of his stool like he’s about to perform surgery. "You good?"
"Define good," I mutter. "I'm wearing tissue paper, half-lotioned, and about to see a tiny person somersault inside me."
The tech enters, a cheerful woman in her late forties named Sandra, with a bun so tight it probably knows state secrets.
“Alright,” she says, smiling. “Let’s see what your little mystery bean is up to today.”
She squirts the jelly onto my belly with zero warning. I gasp.
“Oh my god. That is criminally cold.”
Grayson winces in sympathy. “That looked illegal.”
Sandra just chuckles and presses the wand gently against my skin. The screen flickers, and suddenly, there it is, our baby. Wriggling like it’s got somewhere to be.
“There’s your little acrobat,” Sandra says proudly.
Grayson tightens his hold on my hand. “That’s... a whole human, with arms, moving.”
I blink, trying to process it. “It looks like a gummy bear doing jazz hands.”
Sandra hums as she measures things, clicking the mouse. “Strong heartbeat, and active. Definitely going to keep you on your toes.”
“She already does,” I say, glancing at Grayson, whose eyes are still locked on the screen like he’s witnessing the moon landing.
Sandra shifts slightly, squinting at the screen. "Would you like to know the gender?"
Grayson and I exchange a look. I nod.
"It’s a girl," she announces, smiling.
My heart does a slow somersault. I look over at Grayson, expecting a witty one-liner or a smug grin. Instead, he’s just... soft. His eyes glassy. His thumb brushing tiny circles against the back of my hand.
“A girl,” he whispers, like the words are sacred. “God help anyone who tries to date her.”
I laugh, tears pricking my eyes. “You’re going to be so annoying. She’s going to roll her eyes at you every day from age five to eighteen.”
“She’s going to be brilliant,” he says. “And terrifying, like her mother.”
I bite my lip, overwhelmed, my fingers tightening around his. “I think I love you more right now than I did ten minutes ago. And I really loved you ten minutes ago.”
He leans down and kisses my forehead. “That’s good. Because I’m never getting over this moment.”
We stare at the screen as our little girl flips and kicks and waves like she’s already running the show, and maybe she is.
***
We drive home in comfortable silence, the kind that only comes after your world shifts in the softest, most seismic way. Grayson’s hand rests on my thigh, his thumb tracing idle patterns over my jeans while soft music hums through the speakers. I’m still a little gooey from the ultrasound gel, but emotionally? I’m mush.
Then we hit Lexington and cruise past a small playground tucked between two apartment buildings. It’s packed. Kids are screaming. Not cute squeals, feral banshee-level screaming. One toddler is climbing on the slide, two boys are sword-fighting with sticks, and a frazzled woman is chasing a baby down the sidewalk while yelling something about sun-hats. Grayson slows the car just slightly, and we both stare.
“Oh god,” I whisper. “Is this... is this our future?”
A stroller topples over in the corner of the park, and a very small girl starts eating mulch.
Grayson’s jaw tenses. “I was not emotionally prepared for the mulch-eating phase.”
“You were barely prepared for the jelly-on-my-belly phase.”
A nanny in heels runs by, shouting into a Bluetooth headset while trying to wrangle two screaming twins. One throws a juice box at her. She doesn’t flinch.
“That woman is a warrior,” I say reverently.
“Do you think it’s too late to enroll our unborn daughter in silent meditation school?”
“She hasn’t even been born yet, and you’re already negotiating with fate.”
We finally pull away from the scene, quiet for a moment before we both burst out laughing.
“She’s going to be wild,” Grayson says.
“She’s going to run this city,” I reply.
“She’s going to run us.”
“Already is.”
He squeezes my hand. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Neither would I.