40. Grayson
40
GRAYSON
T he city is still wrapped in morning haze when I step into the office. Perfectly Matched HQ sits high above the skyline, the glass windows still cold to the touch, fogged slightly at the corners like the building itself hasn’t quite woken up yet. The lights flicker on slowly as I pass, sensors tracking my every move, and I welcome the silence.
No phones ringing. No heels clacking. No whisper of PR fires being snuffed out with tightly controlled emails. Just me. A black coffee. And a war to win.
I take the corner office, not mine or Margot’s, but the smaller glass one off the main floor, where the walls are thin enough to hear the pulse of the place. I want to feel the company this morning. Every creak of the building. Every hum of tension in the floorboards. That low buzz of pressure before a storm breaks.
I watch the PulseMatch video one more time. Daphne and Carter. Selling fiction. Selling us repackaged with their names on it. I’m not angry. Not exactly. I’m done playing nice. By the time Olivia walks in, hair up, blazer sharp, tablet in hand, I’ve already drafted a plan.
“Let me guess,” she says. “We’re not reacting. We’re rewriting.”
“Exactly.”
She nods once, then drops a thick folder on the table. “Preliminary reports: PulseMatch’s engagement is up twenty percent. But credibility? That’s shaky. People are watching. Waiting for us to say something.”
“Good,” I say. “Because we’re going to do something better.”
***
An hour later, we’re in the glass conference room. The one with the long matte-black table and floor-to-ceiling skyline views. The chairs are all filled: Olivia, Priya from PR, Cassian freshly returned from a pitch breakfast, even Sophie patched in remotely from San Francisco. There’s steam curling from coffee cups, but no one’s sipping. The mood is too sharp for caffeine.
“Here’s the move,” I say, standing at the head of the table. “We pivot the conversation.”
Cassian lifts a brow. “From defending to…what? Distracting?”
“Reclaiming,” Olivia says for me. “Grayson wants us to go on offense.”
“Three-part approach,” I continue. “First, we drop a mini-series, unscripted, real clips from clients who trust us. People who chose our process and saw results.”
Priya’s already typing. “We’ve got signed media releases from Mason, Alexandra, and Mallory. They’re in.”
“Perfect,” I say. “Second, we give people a behind-the-curtain view of how we actually match. No sales pitch. Just process. Truth.”
“And the third?” Cassian asks.
I look at Olivia. She smiles.
“Us,” I say. “Me and Margot.”
***
I find her in her office, feet up on the velvet ottoman, laptop balanced on her knees, a mocktail sweating beside a half-eaten slice of cake. Her hair’s still damp from the shower. She looks calm. But her eyes are tracking that PulseMatch video like it still might attack her.
“I’ve seen it,” she says as I step inside.
“I know.”
“They’re using what we gave them. Our language. Our tone. They’ve studied us.”
I kneel beside her, pressing one hand to her knee, the other to the edge of her desk.
“Then we remind the world that we’re not acting. We’re the real thing.”
She looks at me. Really looks. Her shoulders ease half an inch. “I hate how much this hurts.”
“They’re faking gravity,” I murmur. “We are the gravity.”
Her breath catches, just a little, and I know I’ve said the right thing. The thing that anchors her back into herself.
“We’re doing a series,” I tell her. “Client stories. Us, too.”
Her eyes flicker with something cautious. “You think people want to see our mess?”
I lean in. “I think they want to see what love looks like when it’s earned.”
***
That night, I stay late in the office. There’s no fanfare. No script. Just me, sitting in a sleek chair in front of a simple black backdrop, facing a single camera. I take a long breath. And I start.
“My name is Grayson King. I’m the co-CEO of Perfectly Matched . And I married my rival in Vegas after months of public competition, private insults, and one very expensive bottle of scotch. I did it because I couldn’t imagine spending my life with anyone else.”
I pause.
“She drives me insane. She challenges me. She terrifies me in all the right ways. And when I look at her, I know I want to build every version of the future around her.”
I shift forward.
“You’ve probably seen the video by now, the other company’s campaign. It’s polished. Romantic. Familiar. But here’s what you don’t know: that couple didn’t just walk away from our process. They ran from accountability. They turned heartbreak into a story they could sell.”
Another pause.
“We don’t guarantee perfection. We guarantee honesty. We don’t sell fantasy. We build connection. And we do it with science, and heart, and the belief that the right match can change your life.”
I glance to the side, where Margot’s sitting just out of frame. She gives me a tiny nod. I look back at the camera.
“We didn’t build Perfectly Matched to go viral. We built it to last.”
***
Fade to black. I sit still for a moment after the camera cuts. The room goes quiet again, just the whir of the equipment powering down and the low hum of the city beneath us. Across the room, Margot rises slowly from her seat. She doesn’t say anything at first. Just walks over, her hand brushing the top of my shoulder, grounding me in silence.
“You meant every word,” she says softly.
I nod. “Every one.”
She exhales. “So did I, when I chose you. Not just for the company. For everything.”
I stand and take her into my arms. She fits like a piece I hadn’t realized I’d been missing until I found it.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she says. “You want to do more.”
“Of course I do.”
“What’s next?”
I pull back just enough to look her in the eyes. “We release the video first thing tomorrow. Then we follow it up with Mason and Alexandra’s story, edited and ready. Olivia’s drafting the email to their media rep now.”
“And PulseMatch?”
I smirk. “Let them play checkers. We’re playing chess.”
She grins. “You really think this will work?”
I reach up and tuck a piece of her hair behind her ear. “No, I know it will.”
We stay in that pocket of quiet, bodies pressed together in the darkened studio, until Olivia peeks her head in.
“It's already trending,” she says. “We just leaked a teaser. People are talking. They want more.”
I glance back at Margot.
“They’ll get more,” I say.
Because this isn’t just business anymore. This is personal. And we’re just getting started.