Page 110 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

A ripple of laughter. Heads nod.

“I used to believe there was one right way to match people. That there was a formula, clean, unshakable, perfect. But then life, Margot, showed me that love isn’t just about logic. It’s about instinct. Vulnerability. Mess. And when we stop pretending it’s one or the other, something extraordinary happens.”

I glance at her. She’s not blinking.

“This new algorithm isn’t perfect because it’s precise. It’s perfect because it’s human. Welcome to the newPerfectly Matched: where the science of connection meets the soul of who we are.”

Applause rises, not just polite. Enthusiastic. Real. The presentation rolls, interactive visuals, connection arcs, story snapshots of couples who made it, couples who nearly didn’t and found their way back. We end with:Let love lead. We’ll handle the rest.

As the lights come up, Margot is already walking toward me.

“No bullet points?” she teases.

“I told you I could be trusted.”

“Questionable, but you delivered.”

I brush a kiss to her cheek. “We delivered.”

Evie lets out a soft sound from the sling, possibly protest, possibly applause. I kiss her head, too.

Olivia appears beside us. “You two just made every single investor tear up. Congratulations. Also, Mason and Alexandra are pitching a podcast. About algorithmic romance and tequila tastings.”

“That sounds about right,” Margot says.

We let the crowd swirl around us, people chatting, smiling, taking photos with the beta interface. And then, like the air has shifted, everything quiets again. Just for a second. It’s the kind of stillness you don’t notice until you feel it.

Margot slips her hand into mine. “We did it.”

“We really did.”

***

Later that Night,we’re back at the penthouse, curled up on the couch, still in our launch clothes, too tired to change and too happy to care.

Evie lies in the center of a plush blanket on the floor, surrounded by soft rattles and wooden toys she won’t use for months. She gurgles and squeals, just because she can.

“She’s so happy,” Margot says. “It’s wild, isn’t it? After everything?”

“It’s perfect,” I say, and this time the word doesn’t scare me.

Because it’s not about perfection. It’s about this: a messy, beautiful, ever-growing version of love that’s stitched together with laughter and sleepless nights and the quiet certainty that we’ve become exactly who we were always meant to be.

Margot leans her head on my shoulder, our arms tangled together. “Do you ever think about the beginning?”

“Every day. But this part…” I nod toward Evie, who’s now squirming and squealing in delight. “This is the part I didn’t even know how to dream of.”

“I did,” she whispers. “Not exactly like this. But I always hoped it would feel like this.”

And it does. It feels like laughter, like love, like peace.

I turn to her slowly, brushing my fingers against her cheek before I kiss her, soft and deep and certain. She leans into me, breathing me in, and when we pull back, our hands reach for Evie in perfect sync.

Together, we bend down, and we both press a kiss to her tiny, warm forehead. Evie lets out a soft, contented sigh. And in that moment, wrapped in each other, in the quiet of our home, in the love we’ve built from fire and chaos and choice, I know we’re exactly where we’re meant to be.

Perfectly matched.