41. Margot
41
MARGOT
I ’ve watched Grayson’s video three times now, and each time, it steals the breath from my lungs in a different way. Not because I’m searching for flaws in the delivery or analyzing how it will be received. Not because I need reassurance that we’re doing the right thing. But because there’s something achingly beautiful about hearing the man I love speak with such quiet conviction, about me, about us, about the messy, fragile truth of what we’ve built together.
His voice pours through the speakers of my office, low and deliberate, filling the space like a promise that refuses to be broken. Outside, the skyline is wrapped in soft light, the morning haze gently peeling away as the city stirs beneath it. But in here, where it’s just me and his words, the world holds its breath.
Grayson doesn’t perform. He never has. What he says, he means. Every syllable feels stripped bare, unvarnished by branding or strategy, sharpened only by sincerity.
I sit on the edge of my chair, hand resting on the swell of my belly, and for a moment, everything else fades. The chaos, the headlines, the worry that keeps me up at night. It all vanishes in the warmth of his voice. And then she kicks, twice. Soft and firm. As if she knows. As if she’s responding to the sound of him, to the steadiness in his tone, to the way he says my name like it’s more than just a name, it’s home.
“You’re his,” I whisper, voice catching. “And he’s yours.”
I’m not someone who cries easily. I’ve spent most of my life mastering the art of composure, wearing it like armor. But something about this moment, this man, this baby, this quiet sacred space between battles, unravels me.
I don’t check the flood of messages pouring into my phone. I don’t open the news alerts or the emails or the investor pings. Not yet. Because for once, I want to sit in the silence after love is spoken aloud.
***
By midday, the studio downtown hums with quiet urgency. The air is chilled, likely to keep the talent from sweating beneath the hot lights, and everything smells faintly of citrus water and dry shampoo. It’s the kind of space that’s designed to soothe, but never lets you forget that you’re about to be watched.
The walls are sleek, covered in soft gray panels and minimalist artwork that probably costs more than my first apartment. The chairs are velvet, the lighting diffused to mimic late-afternoon sunlight. A set designer flits past, adjusting pillows that no one will sit on.
Olivia moves through the space like she owns it. Her heels click softly over the polished floors, her headset tilted just enough to remind everyone she’s in control. She checks lighting angles, double-checks the host’s prep notes, then spins on her heel to study me.
“No shimmer,” she says to the makeup artist, her voice low but absolute. “Keep her radiant. Not glowy. There’s a difference.”
I smirk. “You know I’m sitting right here, yes?”
She spares me a glance. “You look like a woman who has already won. Let’s make sure everyone else knows it too.”
The set is quiet as I take my seat across from the host. She’s cool, elegant, her navy blouse crisply pressed and her expression unreadable beneath the practiced smile. A producer gives us the countdown. The red light on the camera clicks on. And then it’s just me, the camera, and the truth I’ve fought hard to reclaim.
The questions come carefully at first, measured, respectful, the kind designed to open a door rather than batter it down. I answer each one with clarity, with honesty. I speak of algorithms and intention, of how we don’t promise magic but rather offer tools, deep, intentional pathways toward the kind of connection that doesn’t fade when the cameras stop rolling.
But it’s when she asks, “What do you want now, Margot?” that the air shifts.
There’s a long silence as I absorb the weight of that question. What do I want? I think of Grayson. Of the way his hand found mine when I thought I might fall apart. Of the crib he built crooked but proud. Of the tiny life we’re bringing into a world that seems determined to test us at every turn.
“I want to build something that lasts,” I say quietly, but with no hesitation. “For my daughter. For the people who put their hearts in our hands. For anyone who’s ever been told they are too much, too complicated, too wounded to be loved. Because love, real love, isn’t reserved for the lucky. It’s for the brave.”
The silence that follows is thick, reverent. The host nods slowly, and I see it in her eyes, she understands. The camera light fades. And I exhale.
***
The moment I step outside, the world rushes back in. Olivia is already on three calls. She breaks away long enough to press her phone to my hand.
“You broke the algorithm,” she says with a proud grin. “And someone just started a fan thread about your blazer.”
Grayson arrives moments later, his coat open, his hair windswept in a way that makes him look criminally good. He doesn’t say anything at first, just pulls me into a kiss that tastes like pride and black coffee.
“You were luminous,” he murmurs, his lips brushing my temple. “Terrifyingly so.”
We ride back to HQ in silence, our fingers laced together across the seat between us. Outside, the city pulses with life, unaware that something small and seismic has just shifted.
Perfectly Matched headquarters is buzzing the way it only does when something monumental has happened. Sophie’s voice floats from down the hall, mid-call with a reporter. Cassian leans over Olivia’s shoulder, pretending not to be impressed by the analytics flashing across her screen. Every corridor hums with hope and the possibility of a narrative rewritten.
I move through the space slowly, absorbing it, the lifted shoulders, the genuine smiles. The sound of a company exhaling. For the first time in weeks, I allow myself to believe that we might actually be okay. And then Olivia’s phone buzzes. She glances at it. Freezes.
“You need to see this,” she says, her voice shifting from confident to cautious. She hands me the screen. It’s a video. Just thirty seconds long. Branded with PulseMatch’s logo. The tone is darker, the music cinematic in a way that tries too hard. But the image is unmistakable.
Eleanor King. Impeccably dressed. Regal. Dangerous.
She turns to face the camera with the poise of a queen reclaiming her throne, her expression one of calm destruction. The caption unfurls beneath her image: What if the future of love doesn’t belong to them anymore? The screen fades to black. I stare at the phone in my hand. The office grows still around me. Grayson appears beside me, reading it. His hand brushes my back.
“You okay?” he asks, low and steady.
I nod once. But the chill creeping up my spine tells a different story. Because I know exactly what this is. Eleanor didn’t just choose a side. She’s coming for the crown.