36. Grayson
36
GRAYSON
T he morning of the reveal feels strangely quiet. Not literally. The city’s still howling down below, taxis blaring, some jackhammer chewing through concrete a block away. But inside the penthouse, it’s a rare kind of still, the hush that comes just before you hit send on something that could change everything.
Margot’s curled up on the couch, barefoot in leggings and one of my sweaters, hair twisted into a knot she hasn’t touched since breakfast. Her phone is face-down on the coffee table like it’s a grenade. She hasn’t said much since Olivia finalized the post. I walk over, mug in hand, and set it down beside her. Decaf. For once.
“You okay?” I ask gently.
She looks up at me with those storm-blue eyes and nods. “Yes. No. I mean… I want this. We decided this.”
“But now it’s real.”
She gives a dry laugh. “Now it’s hash-tagged.”
I sit beside her, sliding my arm behind her shoulders. Her body leans into mine like second nature.
Olivia appears in the doorway of my home office, tablet in hand, flawless in a navy jumpsuit like she just stepped out of a campaign war room. Because, in a way, she has.
“We’re live in ten,” she says. “Instagram, Twitter, LinkedIn. All three accounts. I’ve scheduled the post, and I’ll be monitoring reaction in real time. Just say the word.”
Margot breathes out. “Say it.”
Olivia doesn’t hesitate. A single tap. And just like that, the world knows.
The post is simple, elegant, unmistakably us. A soft black-and-white photo of the sonogram resting on Margot’s lap, one hand over her small bump, my hand gently covering hers. No faces. Just presence. Connection. The caption reads: Love. Legacy. New life. Grayson and I are thrilled to share that our story is growing – Margot.
Within minutes, it explodes. Olivia’s tablet lights up like a Christmas tree. Comments, shares, reposts. News outlets pick it up within the hour. At first, it’s beautiful. People are rooting for us. Clients post heart emojis. Former matches tag us in congratulations. Even a few elite clients, like Senator Mallory, of all people, repost the announcement with quiet approval. But then the cracks start to show: Grayson King impregnates CEO before final merger; Matchmaking hypocrisy? Margot Evans bends the rules for love; Perfectly Matched... or Perfectly Scripted?; Baby Before Business: Is This the End of Professionalism?
Margot stiffens with every headline Olivia reads aloud.
I grab the tablet and hand it back. “That’s enough.”
She nods and retreats to her corner of the room, fingers flying across the screen. Margot wraps her arms around her stomach and pulls her knees in tighter.
I move toward her, crouch down. “Look at me.”
She does.
“This doesn’t define us. Not the spin. Not the headlines. Just this, me and you and our daughter. That’s real.”
Her eyes shine, and for a second, she just nods and presses her forehead to mine.
“You’re too calm,” she says softly.
“I’m saving it,” I murmur. “For when PulseMatch inevitably tries to set the internet on fire.”
***
They don’t even wait a full twenty-four hours. By evening, PulseMatch has launched a full-blown attack. Paid articles. Bot-driven hashtags. A full press release dripping with sanctimony about “ maintaining professionalism in emotionally charged industries .” And the worst? A fake leak.
A mocked-up screenshot of our internal dashboard, with fabricated data “proving” we used a modified algorithm to match ourselves.
“It’s absolute fiction,” Olivia snarls, pacing the office as we regroup. “But it looks legit to anyone who wants to believe it.”
Margot’s silent now, too quiet. Her jaw’s tight, arms crossed, eyes distant. I don’t wait. I grab my phone, storm into the kitchen, and dial our PR firm.
“Kendra. Full statement, approved by legal. I want it ready in twenty minutes.”
“Already drafting,” she replies. “But Grayson, do you want to respond in print, or…”
“In person.”
I hang up and turn back to Olivia and Margot. “I’m going on air.”
Margot blinks. “What?”
“We’ve done everything by the book. You’ve built a company with integrity. We didn’t manipulate a damn thing, and I’m not going to let a competitor slander you while you’re carrying our daughter.”
“You think this will stop it?”
“No. But it changes the narrative. It plants doubt in their smear campaign. And it reminds the world who the hell we are.”
There’s a pause.
Then Margot exhales and says, “Then I’m going with you.”
***
The studio is sleek, modern, all glass and chrome with plants so perfectly curated they might be AI-generated. Lights glare from the ceiling. Cameras hover. The host, a man named Jonah Vale with slick hair and a news-anchor voice, greets us with a half-smile that never touches his eyes.
“Mr. and Mrs. King,” he says. “Pleasure. I assume you’ve seen the PulseMatch coverage.”
“You mean the fiction,” I reply, shaking his hand a little too firmly. “Yes. We’ve seen it.”
Margot sits beside me in a cream dress that makes her glow even under fluorescent lighting. Her bump is still small, but real. Defiant. Beautiful.
We’re miked, counted down, and live.
Jonah starts smooth. “So, first of all, congratulations. You’ve announced you’re expecting. That’s exciting.”
“Thank you,” Margot says, voice poised. “We’re thrilled.”
“Some have questioned the timing of the reveal,” he continues. “And whether your personal relationship has blurred your professional ethics.”
“That’s an easy one,” I say, voice low and steady. “Margot and I were engaged. Publicly. Our child is not a secret or a scandal. She’s a blessing.”
“And the claim that you matched yourselves?”
Margot tilts her head. “Wouldn’t that be the best possible endorsement? But no. We didn’t game the system. We met. We clashed. We grew. Our story didn’t start in a lab. It started in conflict, and it evolved into trust.”
Jonah raises an eyebrow. “So you’re denying any algorithm tampering?”
“I’m saying PulseMatch fabricated an internal tool that doesn’t exist,” I say coolly. “And they did it because they’re losing. Losing credibility, losing clients, losing relevance.”
There’s a pause, tension crackling in the air like static.
Margot leans in, her voice softer now. “You can’t algorithm your way into love. You can measure data, sure, but love lives in the margins. In the moments that don’t make sense. We didn’t create the algorithm to manufacture outcomes. We created it to reflect possibility.”
And for the first time all night, Jonah looks like he might believe us.
***
Back at the penthouse that night, the air is thick with adrenaline and exhaustion. Olivia has set up a war room in the living room, three monitors, a half-drunk bottle of champagne, and a wall of sticky notes mapping every headline and response.
“Initial pulse is shifting,” she says. “Half the industry’s calling the PulseMatch leak a PR stunt. Several clients have already messaged to say they’re staying with us. And your segment’s trending—#PerfectlyReal is picking up steam.”
Margot sinks onto the couch with a breath that trembles on the way out. I sit beside her and pull her close.
“Hey,” I whisper. “We did good today.”
“I know,” she says, her voice small. “But it still hurts.”
I kiss her temple. “Then let me be the one who gets loud.”
And I will. Because this isn’t just a business anymore. It’s our future. And I’ll protect it with everything I’ve got.