50. Margot
50
MARGOT
T he conference room is too quiet, too clean. The air conditioning hums softly above us, cold and sterile, and the light pouring in from the floor-to-ceiling windows makes everything feel overexposed, like we’re sitting under interrogation lights instead of preparing for a confrontation.
Grayson stands to my left, tall and unreadable, hands in his pockets, his stance deceptively relaxed. Olivia is to my right, tapping something into her tablet, lips drawn into a line. Across from us, in a low-backed leather chair, sits the person I once called promising. Precise. Loyal.
Ashley Lin. She was fresh out of law school when I first met her. Sharp. Curious. A little overeager. I liked her from the start. She was ambitious, but not loud about it, quick to learn, faster to adapt. I brought her onto our team last year with the confidence that she would grow into a star.
I never thought she’d be the crack in our foundation.
"I didn’t do it to hurt you," she says now, her voice low but steady. "You have to believe that. I thought... I thought you were too close to the company to see what it’s becoming."
Grayson’s jaw tics.
I don’t blink. “So you went to Eleanor King.”
“I didn’t know it was her at first. It was a third-party contact. They asked questions about ethics, transparency. About the Vegas marriage, the algorithm…”
“You leaked internal documents,” Olivia cuts in sharply. “Drafts of our client protocols, preliminary testing data. PulseMatch used your phrasing in a national campaign.”
Ashley pales, but her chin lifts slightly. “Because they were right. People deserve better than flashy branding and a love story wrapped in a scandal. You say Perfectly Matched is about compatibility. But lately, it feels more like performance.”
Her eyes shift to me. "I wanted to protect what we built. You taught me to challenge power when it stops serving people."
The words hit somewhere deep, and I hate that.
“Don’t twist my principles into your excuse,” I say, my voice soft but sharp as broken glass. “You didn’t challenge power. You sold it. Quietly. And you didn’t come to me, not once, before betraying every client who trusted us.”
She opens her mouth to speak again, but I raise a hand.
“No. You’re done. You’ll receive formal documentation within the hour. Your access has already been revoked. And you won’t speak to the press, not if you value your future in this industry.”
She hesitates. “Are you threatening me?”
“No,” I say calmly. “I’m reminding you of the weight of your choices.”
Grayson steps forward, his gaze steady. “You had talent. A future. But not enough character to match it.”
Ashley stands, her cheeks flushed. “I hope you realize one day how dangerous it is to believe your own story.”
I hold her gaze. “I know exactly what story I’m in.”
When the door closes behind her, silence blooms.
Olivia exhales and turns back to her tablet. “We’ll clean it up. Reaffirm protocols, issue a client-wide statement. I can have language drafted in two hours.”
Grayson watches me for a long beat. “You okay?”
“I will be.” I glance out at the skyline, where the sun is beginning to dip behind towers of steel and glass. “I just need a minute.”
***
Back at the penthouse, the space feels very still. The windows glow with the warmth of golden hour, streaking across polished floors and soft colored furniture, but the tension hasn’t left my spine.
Grayson walks into the kitchen, loosening his tie as he pours sparkling water into two glasses. He offers me one, brushing his fingers lightly along mine. “That was brutal,” he says.
“She made it easy.”
“You still feel it.”
“Of course I do. I mentored her. I fought to bring her in.”
He sets his glass down. “She didn’t just question the company. She questioned your judgment.”
I nod slowly. “That’s what betrayal is. Personal.”
A beat of quiet passes.
Then he says, “Crane sent over the final intel.”
My head lifts. “Yeah?”
He leans against the island, arms folded. “He confirmed the legal firm that placed Ashley had ties to PulseMatch’s board. Subtle, layered through shell corporations. But intentional.”
“And Eleanor?”
“He’s convinced she orchestrated it. With help.”
Something dark and cold moves through me. But there’s something else too, something sharper than dread. Purpose.
“What did you say to him?” I ask.
“I said thank you.”
I blink. “Really?”
He nods. “He showed up. He helped. And... maybe it’s time I stop pretending I don’t want something from him, too.”
I study him. “Like what?”
“A second chance. To decide what kind of father I want to be.”
I reach for his hand. “You already are that man.”
His thumb slides over my knuckles. “Still learning. But thanks for the review.”
***
Later that night, we’re both barefoot in the nursery. The walls are still bare. The crib is half-assembled. A box of unwrapped baby gifts waits in the corner like a promise we haven’t figured out how to unpack. Grayson is holding a tiny onesie with stars all over it.
“This is... microscopic,” he says.
“She’s going to fit in it,” I say, smiling. “And then she’ll outgrow it in a week.”
He turns it over like it might dissolve. “How are we supposed to be ready?”
“We won’t be.” I sink onto the rocker and press a hand to my belly. “But she’s coming anyway.”
He moves toward me, crouching so we’re eye-level. His hand slides over the curve of my belly, fingers spread wide. “You feel her?”
“She’s kicking like she’s mad we’re behind schedule.”
He smiles, and the tension in his face eases just a little.“Overachiever. Definitely yours.”
“Excuse you,” I laugh.
He leans in, his voice lowering. “We’ve survived sabotage, boardroom warfare, scandal, and heartbreak. If she gets here and the only thing not ready is the mobile above her crib? I think we’ll survive that, too.”
I reach for his collar, tugging him closer. “You make it sound easy.”
He kisses me then. And nothing about it is easy. We don’t make it to the bedroom. I’m halfway out of my sweater before he lifts me, carrying me through the hall with that slow, sure stride that always unravels my thoughts. The city glows beyond the windows, but all I see is him, his hands on my skin, his breath hot against my throat, the reverence in every movement.
He lays me down on the couch, his mouth claiming mine as his hands slide beneath the waistband of my leggings, dragging them down, kissing every inch of exposed skin like it’s sacred.
“You’re glowing,” he murmurs, voice low, rough with want. “You’re fucking gorgeous.”
“Then take your time,” I whisper, arching into his touch.
He does. He strips slowly, deliberately, eyes locked on mine the entire time. When he finally sinks his cock into me, it’s with a groan that sounds like worship. We move together in sync, unhurried, savoring. His hands never leave my skin. His mouth never stops telling me what I mean to him.
When I come, it’s with a cry muffled against his neck. He follows soon after, trembling against me, his breath ragged, his body tense with release. We stay like that, tangled and quiet, heartbeats slowly returning to rhythm.
He brushes a damp strand of hair from my forehead. “You’re the strongest person I know.”
I close my eyes, breathing him in. “We make each other strong.”
He kisses me again, softer this time. And as I drift toward sleep, my hand resting protectively over the gentle swell of our daughter, a single message buzzes on my phone.
Olivia: The media is calling again. Eleanor’s planning something. Final move?
I don’t move. Not yet. For now, I sleep in his arms. Strong. Loved. Ready for whatever comes next.