24. Grayson
24
GRAYSON
T here’s something about hearing the word "daughter" out loud that resets everything. It’s not fear, it’s clarity. The kind of weight that anchors you. Every time I say it in my head, I see her. Her tiny hands. Margot’s eyes. The little girl who’s going to turn my life inside out and make it better for it.
So, I wake up early. No snooze button, no hesitation. I show up to the office early, suit pressed, tie sharp, sleeves rolled. If I’m building the future, for her, for Margot, I want it steady and clean.
Perfectly Matched HQ is humming already when I step into the tenth-floor executive lounge. Olivia is in place, tablet in hand, heels like weapons. She raises an eyebrow.
“You’re early,” she says. “Is this a ‘new man, new mission’ kind of thing?”
“Something like that,” I reply.
Our clients arrive together, an unusual arrangement, but one they both insisted on. Alexandra Devaux, sleek and polished in a tailored navy suit, walks in like the building owes her rent. Her platinum hair is twisted into a knot that would terrify most interns. Mason Wolfe follows behind her in a black Henley and a blazer that probably cost more than my first car. He’s grinning like he just got away with something.
“Ms. Devaux. Mr. Wolfe,” I greet them, motioning to the private conference room. “Come in. Sit wherever you won’t judge each other.”
Alexandra chooses the chair with her back to the window. “I always prefer facing the exits.”
Mason tosses his jacket over a second chair and leans back like we’re in a cigar lounge. “I like this one. Best angle if she throws her coffee.”
Olivia hides a smile as she closes the door. We sit. The room itself reflects the tone we’ve tried to strike at Perfectly Matched, sleek but not sterile, refined but still comfortable. The floor-to-ceiling windows let in soft light that warms the dark wood conference table. A glass bowl of fresh orchids sits in the center, flanked by artisan bottled water and Olivia’s impeccably organized stack of tablet stands and color-coded client folders.
Alexandra sits poised, her navy suit so perfectly tailored it might as well have been sewn onto her. Her heels are pointed, Italian, and lethal, and when she crosses her legs, it’s with the kind of precision that makes interns panic. Her expression is unreadable, but her eyes take in everything. Calculating. Sharp.
Mason, on the other hand, looks like the human embodiment of a charming complication. His black Henley hugs him in all the calculated ways, like everything he wears is meant to be effortless, just enough to disarm without trying too hard. He lounges in his seat like the table owes him rent, one ankle resting on his opposite knee, his fingers drumming against the armrest as if he’s resisting the urge to flirt with the air.
“I thought we’d make this a little different today,” I begin. “Since you’re both confident, articulate, and frightening in wildly different ways, we’re going to do a side-by-side onboarding. A little matchmaking double-feature.”
Alexandra arches a brow. “And here I thought you’d be soft-spoken. You look soft-spoken.”
“I’m disarming,” I say. “It’s an underrated survival tactic.”
Mason grins. “I like him already.”
“I assume you’ve both reviewed the intake framework and preference tiers?”
“I marked everything I didn’t hate,” Alexandra says, deadpan.
“I did mine after two bourbons and a yacht party,” Mason says. “So if it doesn’t make sense, just assume I was optimistic.”
“Perfect,” I reply. “Then let’s begin.”
I tap the screen on my tablet, pulling up their onboarding profiles. Olivia quietly hands each of them a sleek printout, client summary, personal goals, compatibility markers. Mason flips his like it’s a menu. Alexandra barely glances at hers.
“Let’s talk hobbies,” I say. “Real ones. Not the aspirational things people list to sound interesting. Actual ways you spend your time.”
Mason is first to answer. “Travel. Poker. Chess. Building race cars and businesses. Also, recently: flying planes I probably shouldn’t own.”
Alexandra doesn’t look impressed. “You sound like a middle-aged Bond villain.”
“I get that a lot,” he says cheerfully. “Want to play chess sometime? I’ll lose on purpose if it makes you feel better.”
“Please. I don’t play games I don’t intend to win.”
I glance between them, amused. “Excellent. Mutual competitive streaks noted. Alexandra, your turn.”
She smooths an imaginary wrinkle from her sleeve. “I design. I build fashion that doesn’t destroy the planet. I read philosophy, write letters I don’t send, and I spend my weekends hiking alone so no one can ask me for feedback.”
Mason nods like he’s impressed. “That actually sounds way cooler than my list.”
“It is,” she replies. Then adds, “Except maybe the plane. That’s mildly intriguing.”
“I’ll take that as flirtation,” Mason says.
“It wasn’t,” she replies.
I clear my throat. “What do you value most in a partner? Beyond the obvious. Give me something specific.”
Alexandra’s answer is immediate. “Intellect. Integrity. Someone who isn’t afraid of my ambition or my silence.”
Mason follows with, “Playfulness. Loyalty. A woman who can challenge me and laugh at me, preferably in the same sentence.”
“And you’re both looking for a long-term connection?” I ask.
Alexandra nods. “I don’t do placeholders.”
Mason grins. “I don’t mind the occasional placeholder, but I’ve done enough of those. I’m ready to lose on purpose, just once.”
Alexandra actually smirks. “Now that sounded almost genuine.”
“I try to be, at least once a meeting.”
“You both have wildly different energies,” I observe.
Alexandra shrugs. “We’re in very different markets. I run a sustainability empire. He probably sells watches on Instagram.”
Mason grins. “Only the ones that survive my lap times. Besides, opposites attract. Everyone knows that.”
“Until they don’t,” she replies dryly.
I interject before the banter turns into a duel. “Alright, let’s talk values again. Rapid fire. You get one word per answer.”
I turn to Mason. “What’s your dealbreaker?”
“Dishonesty.”
“Biggest turn-on?”
“Curiosity.”
“Secret guilty pleasure?”
“Reality TV. The Great British Bake Off specifically. Don’t judge me.”
Alexandra lifts a single eyebrow. “Unexpected.”
I turn to her. “Same questions.”
“Dealbreaker?” I ask.
“Arrogance without substance.”
“Turn-on?”
“Precision.”
“Guilty pleasure?”
Alexandra pauses. “Color-coded spreadsheets. Preferably shared ones.”
Mason leans over, mock-whispering. “I think I just fell in love.”
Olivia snorts and pretends to cough into her tablet. "You’re not the first to say that in this room. You won’t be the last."
I sit back, hands steepled. “We may be in trouble.”
Just as I’m about to pivot to their first assignment, Olivia’s tablet buzzes. She glances down, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. She tilts the screen toward me. It’s a secure message. Only one word is highlighted: Mallory.
I exhale through my nose. Senator Claudia Mallory, queen of PR landmines and public takedowns, again. I glance back at Mason and Alexandra, still trading playful barbs like a modern screwball comedy. They have no idea what kind of storm is building on the outside. Fantastic.