27. Margot
27
MARGOT
S enator Mallory doesn’t yell when she walks into the office. That would be far too ordinary. Instead, she storms in wearing a dove-gray suit and a smile carved from marble, heels clicking like a metronome of doom. Her assistant trails behind her carrying a tablet and what I can only assume is a backup agenda for global domination. Her presence floods the room like a cold front, controlled, deliberate, and impossible to ignore.
I’m standing just off-center near the windows, the soft morning light catching the edge of my blazer. One hand is curled around the edge of the marble table, the other resting low on my hip like I’m trying to ground myself without revealing it. The minute I see her expression, I straighten.
"Did we agree to this headline?" she asks, holding her phone like it personally betrayed her. Her eyes narrow as she reads it aloud. "‘Ice Queen Sizzles in Secret Date’, is this a matchmaking service or a tabloid circus?"
"We didn’t leak it," I say calmly, forcing the tension out of my shoulders as I meet her gaze. " PulseMatch did, and we’re already two steps ahead."
Grayson appears beside me, coffee in one hand, calm in the other. He leans against the table with that relaxed kind of confidence that disarms almost everyone. Almost.
"We’re releasing the full video," he says. "With context. Edited by our team, framed by our brand."
"Spinning," she corrects, her lip barely twitching.
"Positioning," I counter, stepping forward. I hold out a printed mock-up of the updated campaign header: We’re calling it: Power Meets Precision – How Senator Mallory Is Redefining Compatibility in the Age of Influence.
Her eyes skim it. Then again. I watch her shoulder lift a half-inch higher with approval.
"A little long," she says, "but better."
"It’ll headline every press outlet from here to Brussels by noon," I say. "And it’ll link to our full transparency report on elite onboarding protocols."
She stares at me long enough that I briefly consider faking a fainting spell. Then she nods once.
"Do it. But I want final approval on the pull quotes."
"Done," I lie smoothly, smiling as Grayson slips me a flash drive with the final cut.
"Do it. But I want final approval on the headline."
"Done," I lie smoothly.
***
By the time the new edit is live, we’ve wrapped it in a three-tiered media campaign. Interviews. Quotes. Even a subtle product placement with her signature lipstick in a behind-the-scenes clip. The backlash softens by noon. By five, she’s trending for all the right reasons. Her approval numbers tick upward, and our inboxes flood with media requests. But we know this momentum won’t hold unless we act fast.
The next step is strategic. We schedule a second date for Mallory and étienne, this time somewhere more public, more symbolic. A museum gala. Art, intellect, flashbulbs. The perfect balance of class and chaos. Olivia updates us from the PR command center, her desk glowing with three monitors and the calm of someone who thrives under pressure.
"We’ve overtaken PulseMatch’s trending tag," she reports. "And several high-profile names have retweeted the footage calling her ‘intimidating in the best way.’"
"Good," I say. "Now we shift the story to us."
Grayson’s already adjusting campaign copy. "We follow up with a client spotlight on one of our elite matches. Get eyes back on the service, not just the senator."
"Which brings us to Mason and Alexandra," Olivia adds. "Their footage from the mixer? Surprisingly compelling."
***
The scene cuts to footage from the rooftop mixer. It’s filmed at dusk, high above the West Village in a boutique penthouse event space that overlooks the Hudson. Floor-to-ceiling windows open onto a rooftop lined with copper planters overflowing with olive trees and string lights that glow like suspended stars. The mood is sophisticated but intimate, like a Vogue editorial had a baby with a Michelin-starred cocktail party.
Alexandra stands by the champagne bar, her posture perfect, her expression unreadable but not unkind. She’s dressed in a charcoal jumpsuit tailored within an inch of its life, the neckline clean, the sleeves dramatic in that quiet, expensive way. She holds her coupe glass like it’s an accessory to a much bigger plan.
Mason, across the space, is mid-conversation with a group of guests. He wears midnight blue and shadowed stubble, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, collar relaxed like he never learned how to worry. His hands move as he tells a story, drawing laughter and attention like gravity. He catches Alexandra’s eye.
She lifts her glass in mock salute. "Still working the crowd, Wolfe?"
He saunters over, slipping between guests with the grace of someone used to navigating pit crews and cocktail galas alike. "Networking," he says innocently. "It’s called charisma. You should try it."
"I prefer precision to charm."
"You’re allowed to have both. I read that in a fortune cookie once."
Alexandra’s lips twitch. "Do you often base your life philosophy on dessert packaging?"
"Only when it’s right."
He leans in just enough for her to tilt back half an inch.
"You’re persistent."
"You’re fascinating."
She laughs softly. It’s rare. Real.
"Careful," she murmurs. "I might start believing you."
"Is that a threat or a promise?"
She considers it. "Depends on your footwork."
He offers his hand. "One more dance. This time I promise not to step on your plan for global domination."
She hesitates, then takes it. The clip ends with them in mid-spin, laughter unguarded, the city glowing behind them. But what the cameras don’t fully catch, what only the human eye sees, is the moment afterward.
He steadies her with a hand at her waist, just a second too long. She doesn’t step away.
“You’re better at that than you let on,” she says, slightly breathless.
Mason grins. “I contain multitudes.”
“I doubt that.”
“Then keep dancing with me. Find out.”
She starts to say something, something sharp, maybe, but it melts. She looks out toward the city instead.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” she says.
“I know,” he replies. “But maybe it could.”
She doesn’t answer. Just lets the silence stretch between them. Soft. Suspicious. Hopeful. That’s how it begins, but it doesn’t end there. After the spin, they retreat to a quiet corner of the rooftop, a little lounge nook half-shadowed by a flowering trellis and the soft flicker of candlelight. The laughter fades around them, replaced by the ambient hush of city sounds and distant jazz.
Alexandra sits first, crossing her legs with practiced poise. Mason flops down beside her, his shoulder brushing hers in the narrow seat.
He glances at her. "You always this hard to read?"
She doesn’t answer immediately. Just sips her drink, then sets it down on the low table. "I’m not built for easy narratives."
He watches her, serious now. "And what narrative do you think people expect from you?"
"That I’m cold. Strategic. Too difficult to love."
His brow furrows. "Is that what you think?"
She laughs once, bitter-edged. "It’s what I’ve heard. Enough times to memorize the tone."
Mason doesn’t look away. "People say the same about me. Charming, but not serious. A game."
She looks at him then, for real this time. No defenses. Just sharp eyes softened by candlelight.
"So what are we, Wolfe? Two cautionary tales looking for better edits?"
He tilts his head. "Maybe. Or two people tired of acting like they don’t want to be known."
Alexandra’s gaze drops to her lap. Then slowly, back to him. "You don’t scare easy."
"Neither do you."
They sit like that for a beat, shoulders touching, silence settling, and then, quietly, she says, "This still doesn’t mean anything."
Mason leans back, smiling. "Of course not. But it’s a hell of a start."
Soft, unscripted, real. Perfectly Matched.