30. Grayson
30
GRAYSON
T he conference room smells like espresso, dry-erase markers, and betrayal. Jared Bloom sits at the end of the long glass table, hands folded, expression unreadable. Across from him, Olivia is all power posture and silence. Margot stands near the window, backlit by morning light and barely restrained fury. Me? I lean against the wall with my arms crossed, watching him like a hawk watches a rat.
“You want to explain,” I say, “why PulseMatch just happened to launch a campaign using proprietary data you accessed at 11:43 p.m. three nights ago?”
Jared doesn’t flinch. “I wasn’t working with them.”
I let out a sharp breath. “Sure. And I moonlight for HeartBridge.”
“I’m not lying.” He finally meets Margot’s gaze. “They approached me months ago. I said no. Then they tried to blackmail me, threatened to expose something from my past that never happened. I didn’t know what to do, so I agreed to send over junk. Red herrings.”
Margot steps forward, voice calm but lethal. “So you fed a rival company partial truths and garbage to what, buy time?”
“I thought if I sent them enough noise, they’d think I was useful. I figured it gave us a chance to track them from the inside.”
“You didn’t tell us,” Olivia says flatly.
“Because I didn’t know who I could trust. What if it wasn’t just PulseMatch ? What if someone here was working with them?”
My gaze hardens. “And now you want credit for protecting us?”
“No,” he says. “I want to make it right.”
We’re quiet for a beat. Then Margot says, “Effective immediately, you’re suspended. We’ll verify every claim. If there’s truth in this, you’ll have a chance to come back. If not…”
“We bury you,” I finish.
Jared swallows. Nods. Security escorts him out.
When the door clicks shut, Olivia exhales. “He’s either the most paranoid loyalist I’ve ever seen… or the dumbest double agent in history.”
“Let’s prepare for both,” Margot says. “We’ve got a wedding to survive before the next PR ambush.”
And just like that, the real war begins, lace, champagne, and all.
***
By noon, we’re at a private atelier in SoHo, because according to Madeline, “If Margot walks down the aisle in anything off-the-rack, the wedding gods will strike us all down.”
The studio is bathed in soft natural light, floor-to-ceiling mirrors, and racks of gowns that cost more than some people’s starter homes. Margot stands on a pedestal in front of the central mirror, wrapped in ivory silk and low-key panic.
“I feel like a meringue,” she says.
“You look like a goddess,” I counter, adjusting my cuffs from the leather couch across the room.
She glances at me in the mirror. “You’re biased.”
“Extremely.”
Madeline claps from the corner. “Try the structured column next. Less dessert, more fashion assassin.”
Margot disappears behind a screen. I cross the room and wait, listening to the soft rustle of fabric.
“You think,” she calls, “we’re actually going to pull this off? The wedding, the company, the baby?”
I step closer to the divider. “You mean all the things no one else would attempt at once? Yeah. I do.”
There’s a pause. Then her voice, quieter: “I thought I’d feel... more ready.”
“To marry me?”
“To be seen.” Her voice softens. “It’s different when you spend your life being sharp. Strategic. Useful. I’m used to being judged for how I think. Not how I look walking down an aisle.”
I step toward the screen and press my palm to the fabric. “You’re still all of that. Even in silk. Even barefoot. Even when you’re not trying.”
She goes quiet, then says, “You’re not supposed to make me cry before I put on mascara.”
“Sorry,” I whisper. “You just do things to me.”
She steps out, and I swear the world halts. This dress is nothing like the others. Clean lines. Satin that hugs her like it was sewn with her in mind. No beads. No fuss. Just her. Radiant. Real.
“Okay,” she says, watching me. “You’re doing the thing.”
“What thing?”
“The you’re-going-soft-in-the-eyes thing.”
I walk up to her slowly. Take her hand. “You know what I see?”
“What?”
“Our daughter watching this photo in twenty years, knowing exactly how much I loved her mother,” I answer softly.
She blinks hard. “Grayson.”
“Just saying.”
Her fingers tighten around mine.
Madeline claps again. “We have a winner. Pack it in. Nothing else will compete with whatever that moment was.”
***
A few hours later, we stop by the tailor. I’m standing on a low riser in front of a three-way mirror in a charcoal three-piece suit while Margot lounges on a velvet bench, drinking Pellegrino like it’s champagne.
“I have never been so turned on by a vest,” she murmurs.
“Please don’t start that in front of the tailor,” I say through my teeth.
The tailor beams. “I’m flattered.”
Margot rises from the bench and crosses to me, her fingers grazing the lapel of my jacket.
“You know what I love about this look?” she asks, eyes on the mirror.
“That I don’t look like I’m heading into a deposition?”
“No,” she says, voice low. “That it’s the version of you no one else gets to see. The polished one. The one that lets me undress him later.”
I arch a brow. “Later, huh?”
She slides her hand down my chest. “Unless you want to cause a scandal in the tailor’s back room.”
I catch her wrist gently. “You’re insatiable.”
“I’m marrying you,” she says. “Might as well enjoy my investment.”
We both laugh. But there’s something more in her eyes as she looks at me, not just desire, but something deeper. A kind of stillness.
“You’re really doing this,” she says. “You’re really all in.”
“There’s no halfway with you,” I say.
She rests her hand against my heart. “You make me feel... safe. And seen. I didn’t know I needed both.”
I cover her hand with mine. “And you make me feel like I’m not just a name, or a title, or someone’s legacy. You make me feel like I belong.”
She lifts onto her toes and kisses me, soft, slow, grounding. And in that quiet, velvet-lined tailor shop, it feels like everything else fades away. Just her. Just me. Just this life we’re about to build.
***
Later, in the back of the car as city lights flicker past, she rests her head on my shoulder.
“I still don’t know how to relax,” she whispers.
“You don’t have to,” I say. “You just have to lean. I’ll carry the rest.”
She kisses my jaw. And for the first time in days, there’s no fight in her touch, only peace.