49. Grayson
49
GRAYSON
T he moment Olivia’s message flashes across Margot’s phone screen, I know it’s more than noise: We may have another leak. Just seven words, but they cut straight through the fragile calm we’ve spent the last forty-eight hours trying to preserve.
Margot’s in the shower, steam curling beneath the crack of the bathroom door. She’s humming something low, off-key, probably the lullaby she’s been quietly rehearsing without realizing it. The sound tugs at something inside me. But the phone in my hand is heavier.
I grab mine from the counter and tap into our encrypted thread. Olivia answers immediately, her voice crisp and cool.
“It’s not confirmed,” she says. “But something’s off. The finance team flagged a media ping from one of our draft statements. It was never sent externally, but it matches PulseMatch’s latest language almost word for word.”
“Timing?”
“About ten hours ago.”
“Internal or external?”
“Internal. Has to be.”
I close my eyes for a beat, feeling the frustration coil low in my gut. This isn’t just sabotage. This is a game being played from the inside, and someone wants us too distracted to fight clean.
“I want you to flag every person who had access to the campaign files in the last twenty-four hours,” I say. “And bring the legal team into a separate room. Don’t loop in the board. Not yet.”
“Already started,” she replies. “But Grayson… there’s something else. Someone reached out.”
I freeze. “Who?”
“Your father.”
***
Crane is already waiting by the time I arrive at Perfectly Matched’s office. He’s seated in the private boardroom, lean, composed, suit immaculate, the city spilling out behind him through a floor of glass. He looks like he owns the building, like he’s been here all along. Like this isn’t the first time he’s come to clean up someone else’s mess.
Olivia stands a few feet away, arms crossed, her expression unreadable but unmistakably annoyed.
“Bold move,” I say as I walk in.
He stands smoothly, offering a faint smile. “You didn’t return my call.”
“I was busy managing the fallout of a smear campaign.”
“Then I figured I’d show up and offer an extinguisher.”
I don’t shake his hand. I just take a seat at the table and gesture for Olivia to begin. She launches into a tight rundown of the leak, timing, access logs, files cross-referenced. We’re down to a list of five possible internal sources. Four of them are long-time, trusted employees.
The fifth? A new legal assistant hired through a firm Perfectly Matched used for corporate restructuring last quarter.
“She’s been squeaky clean on paper,” Olivia says. “But the metadata shows her terminal accessed the flagged doc four hours before the language showed up on PulseMatch’s social campaign.”
“Coincidence?” I ask.
Crane leans forward, tapping a finger against the screen. “Unlikely. Eleanor’s strategy has always involved planting seeds she can later deny pulling.”
Olivia eyes him. “And what makes you so familiar with Eleanor’s strategy?”
“I was her strategy,” he says dryly. “At least for a while.”
I bite down a comment and turn back to Olivia. “Trace her communication. If she’s forwarding anything, even internally, I want a report. And shut down her system access. Quietly.”
She nods and leaves the room with military precision. Crane watches me for a moment.
“You’re handling it well,” he says.
“Is that your way of saying you’re impressed?”
“It’s my way of saying your mother underestimated you.”
I let that sit between us for a moment, then ask, “Why are you really here?”
He doesn’t flinch.
“Because she made you a liability the second she exposed the truth about your name. And now that the world knows you’re not a King, I’m not interested in pretending I’m invisible.”
“You were never invisible,” I murmur.
“No,” he says quietly. “Just silent. And I won’t be anymore.”
He slides a small envelope across the table.
“What’s this?”
“Background on the firm that vetted your new legal hires,” he says. “One of their senior partners sits on PulseMatch’s silent investor board. I don’t think the girl’s working alone.”
I study him for a moment, letting the weight of that revelation sink in. The lines are starting to connect. Eleanor isn’t just playing publicly, she’s still working angles from the inside, manipulating levers that were set in motion long before any of us saw them.
“You knew this and didn’t say anything sooner?”
Crane doesn’t blink. “I suspected. Now I’m certain. And I didn’t come empty-handed.”
“I never thought you did.”
He stands slowly, gathering his coat. “Let me know when you’re ready to take the next step with the expansion. The money’s real. The network is deep. But this…” He gestures to the screen. “…has to be contained.”
Then, more quietly, “You have more to lose than your name now.”
I nod once. It’s not forgiveness. But it’s something.
***
By the time I return to the penthouse, the sun is setting in a haze of coral and lavender beyond the city skyline. Margot is in the kitchen, barefoot again, a silk robe tied lazily at her waist, her hair twisted into a knot she probably forgot she made. A soft playlist drifts from the speakers, soft jazz, because she likes the illusion of effortless cool, even if she’s secretly exhausted.
I pause in the doorway and just watch her for a moment. She's plating something, roasted chicken, a bright salad, a bowl of warm farro. It smells like lemon and rosemary and the kind of comfort that makes you exhale.
“You cooked,” I say, stepping into the room.
She doesn’t turn. “I stress-cooked. You’re welcome.”
I smile, stepping up behind her and sliding my hands to her hips. “You okay?”
She exhales slowly. “No. But I’m better now that you’re here.”
Dinner is slow, cozy, unrushed. Candles flicker in low glass holders, casting soft halos of light across her cheekbones, her collarbone, the gentle curve of her belly. The table is a mix of soft clinks and quiet words, of glances held a few seconds too long and touches that linger.
“You look tired,” she murmurs.
“So do you.”
We’re both quiet for a moment. Then she says, “Did you handle it?”
“We’re close. The leak’s not just a fluke, it’s intentional. But I’ve got eyes on it.”
“Good,” she says, reaching for my hand. “Because I can’t do this alone.”
“You’re not alone.”
She squeezes my fingers, lifts my hand to her lips. “I know. That’s the only reason I’m still standing.”
After dinner, we clean up together, the lights low, the city glowing outside our windows. Her laughter returns gradually, rising like steam. She leans against me at the sink, and I pull her close, brushing a damp curl behind her ear.
“You smell like lemon and victory,” I murmur.
She smiles. “Don’t jinx it.”
Later, we stretch out on the couch, limbs tangled, breath steady. I press my hand to her belly, feeling the soft kick against my palm, and everything slows. We haven’t won. Not yet. But we’re closer. And for now, we’re still standing, together.