39. Margot
39
MARGOT
T he nursery looks like a Pinterest board exploded in our penthouse. I’m standing barefoot on the pale wood floors, holding a swatch of wallpaper with tiny watercolor foxes wearing bow ties. Grayson is crouched on the opposite end of the room, trying, and failing, to assemble a mid-century-modern crib that claimed to be “easy to install.”
“I don’t think this piece goes here,” he says, holding up what might be a support beam, or a decorative armrest, or a prop from a Scandinavian horror film.
“I told you we should’ve paid for the assembly service,” I murmur, tapping my lip with the wallpaper sample. “We are not those people who just know how dowels work, Grayson. We're not rugged.”
“We run a multi-million-dollar company. I think we can manage a crib.”
“You also once locked yourself out of your own office because you thought the biometric scanner was a snack dispenser.”
“It was one time,” he says flatly. “And in my defense, it was next to a vending machine.”
I lower the fox wallpaper. “So you thought the hand scanner was giving out...what, protein bars?”
“Protein and shame,” he mutters, staring at a small bag of mystery screws. “Both of which I’m feeling again right now.”
I laugh, then walk over and crouch beside him, glancing at the instructions, which, naturally, are in Swedish and look like an avant-garde comic strip.
“This doesn’t even have words. Just a drawing of a man sweating while holding a wrench.”
“Relatable,” he mutters.
I hand him the correct piece. “This one goes here.”
He looks at me, suspicious. “Are you sure?”
“I’m growing an actual human inside me. I think I’ve earned the benefit of the doubt when it comes to structural logic.”
“Fair point.” He slots the piece in. It fits perfectly.
Grayson glances at me, lips twitching. “How are you so calm about this?”
I shrug. “I grew up with interior designers who had meltdowns over throw pillows. This is relaxing.”
“You’re nesting.”
“I’m organizing.”
“You’re nesting,” he repeats with a soft smile, brushing hair behind my ear.
I pretend to consider. “Maybe. But if this baby comes out already appreciating minimalism, I expect full credit.”
“Deal.” He leans in and kisses my temple. “Also, I may need to lie down. I’ve fought corporate lawyers and hostile takeovers with less tension than these screws.”
Later, we’re both sprawled out on the nursery floor, breathing like we just ran a marathon. The crib stands finished and smug-looking in the corner, a pristine little monument to teamwork and YouTube tutorials.
“You realize we just celebrated finishing a crib like we won the Olympics,” I murmur.
“We did win. We won against 47 unlabeled parts and four contradicting diagrams.”
“And mild emotional damage,” I add. “Don’t forget that.”
He nudges me with his foot. “I’m framing this moment. Mentally. This is the first piece of furniture our daughter will ever see.”
I go quiet at that. Something warm expands in my chest. “She’s going to know how much we love her before she even takes her first breath.”
Grayson’s eyes soften. “She already does.”
***
Later, I stretch out on the couch with a cold lemonade while Grayson wipes down the crib with a look of exhausted pride.
“We did it,” he says, triumphant. “No extra screws.”
“Which, depending on your philosophy, is either very impressive or very concerning.”
He leans over, presses a kiss to my temple, and murmurs, “Do you think she’ll like it?”
I glance at the crib. Then at him.
“She already loves everything you touch.”
His eyes darken for a beat. He slides his hand over my belly and lowers himself next to me on the couch.
“You terrify me,” he whispers, voice rough. “In the best possible way.”
My throat tightens. I run my fingers through his hair. “You make me feel safe, even when everything else is falling apart.”
We stay like that for a long moment, wrapped in something soft and fierce and wildly unspoken. Until my phone buzzes on the coffee table. Olivia: Heads up. PulseMatch just launched their next campaign. Thought you’d want to see the preview before it hits press.
Grayson groans. “We should’ve turned our phones off.”
I tap the link and wait for it to load, dread blooming in my stomach before I’ve even seen the screen. I know PulseMatch. They don't move without strategy. Without bite.
The video loads: golden lighting, artful lens flares, slow-motion laughter. A couple walks hand-in-hand through a vineyard. They kiss under a string of twinkling lights. They pose in matching linen outfits on a bluff somewhere suspiciously Santorini-esque. PulseMatch Presents: Love That Defies the Algorithm. And there they are. Daphne and Carter.
My breath catches like I’ve been slapped. I know their smiles. I remember those profiles. I sat with Daphne when she cried about her last relationship. I reviewed Carter’s endless questionnaire revisions. I recommended the vineyard they now use as their fake love story backdrop. I matched them. Six months later, she found him in bed with his Pilates instructor. They imploded, loudly, messily, publicly. She outed him on social media. He responded with a thread titled “Let’s Talk About Emotional Maturity.” It was carnage. And now they’re back. As PulseMatch’s answer to us.
“They’re trying to sell a fantasy,” I whisper.
Grayson sits up, his hand finding mine. “They’re baiting you.”
“They’re rewriting history and weaponizing my work. My instincts. My name.”
I press pause on the video, the image freezing on Daphne’s perfectly posed smile, the same woman who once sobbed into a lavender martini across from me, telling me she didn’t believe in love anymore. I had spent weeks convincing her that compatibility could still mean something. That she still meant something. And now she’s rebranded herself as the poster child for love without logic?
Grayson watches me closely, fingers brushing over mine. “You okay?”
“No,” I say, and the honesty feels sharp. “I’m not okay. This feels personal.”
“It is.”
“I spent years building trust with people like them. Teaching them that love wasn’t just an accident or a vibe, that it could be understood. That it was worth investing in.”
“And now they’re selling the opposite,” he says quietly.
“Worse. They’re selling it with my work . They’re turning what we built into proof that it doesn’t work.”
Grayson shifts closer. “They can’t steal what’s real.”
I look at him, his hair mussed from leaning against the couch, the faint worry line between his brows, the calm in his eyes when I’m coming undone.
“Then let’s show them what real looks like,” I whisper. “Not curated. Not algorithm-free. Just... us.”
He cups my face. “We already are.”
For a moment, there’s just his breath against my skin, the city humming outside our windows, and the ache of everything we’ve fought to protect.
“I want to fight back,” I murmur. “But I don’t want to lose myself in it.”
“You won’t,” he says. “Not while I’m here.”
My phone buzzes again. Olivia: They’re doing a morning show circuit. First interview’s Friday. Want me to prep a counter-feature?
I stare at the screen. Then at the crib. At the safe, soft, beautiful world we’re building inside all this noise.
“Yes,” I reply. “But not to react. To reframe. Let’s show people what love really looks like. Starting with ours.”