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EMILY

T he palace ballroom sparkles like it’s been dusted with diamonds — and I’m the fairy godmother who made it happen.

I stand by the entrance, clipboard in hand, checking off final details as the staff place crystal glasses on white-clothed tables.

My heart beats fast with excitement and a touch of nerves.

I’ve organized events for celebrities and billionaires before, but never for actual royalty.

Tonight, Prince Hugo of Marzieu will meet the amazing women I’ve handpicked for him.

The only piece that still needs to fall into place is his cooperation… and that is, sadly, out of my hands.

“Ms. Emily, where would you like the flower arrangements?” A young server approaches, carrying a vase of cream-colored roses.

“Center of each table, please.” I smile, making a check on my list. “The name cards should go to the right of each place setting.”

The server nods and hurries away. I take a deep breath, admiring my work.

For something put together in just a few days, this mixer looks incredible.

The chandeliers cast a warm glow over the room, and soft music plays from hidden speakers.

I’ve transformed the stuffy royal ballroom into something inviting and casual — well, as casual as a palace can get.

The doors swing open, and the first guests begin to arrive.

Twenty-five women, each one carefully selected from hundreds of profiles and personally interviewed by me over video chat in the past seventy-two hours.

I’ve barely slept, but it was worth it. These women represent the best Marzieu and neighboring countries have to offer — doctors saving lives, artists changing perspectives, business leaders building empires.

“Dr. Renée Corbin.” I greet a tall woman with dark hair pulled into a neat bun. “So glad you could make it. I loved hearing about your work with Doctors Without Borders.”

“Thank you for inviting me,” she says, her voice soft but confident. “Though I must admit, I was surprised to get your call. Meeting a prince wasn’t on my to-do list this week.”

“The best matches often come when we’re not looking for them,” I say with a wink.

It’s my favorite line, and I’ve found it to be true both professionally and personally. Though in my case, I’m still waiting for that surprise match to appear in my own life.

It’s not long before all the women arrive, each dressed elegantly but not overly formal, just as I requested. I greet them all by name, remembering details from our conversations. This is what makes me good at my job — I care about the people, not just the matching.

“Emily, this is simply wonderful.”

I turn to find Queen Julia approaching, looking regal in a midnight-blue dress that somehow manages to be both royal and approachable. Her silver hair is styled in soft waves, and her smile is warm.

My stomach does a little flip. “Your Majesty,” I say, giving my best curtsy. “Thank you for allowing me to organize this event.”

She places a gentle hand on my arm. “I’m impressed with how quickly you’ve put this together. And the women you’ve selected…” She glances around the room. “They seem quite accomplished.”

Pride swells in my chest. “They are. I wanted to find women who could match your son’s intelligence and drive, but who might also help him remember there’s life outside the palace offices.”

Her eyes crinkle at the corners. “That’s exactly what he needs. You truly are as good as they say.”

“The job isn’t done yet,” I remind her, hoping that I won’t end up disappointing this woman who holds more power than all of my previous clients put together.

As if on cue, the room goes quiet, and Prince Hugo enters. He looks handsome as always, dressed in a tailored navy suit that makes his blue eyes pop. Unfortunately, those eyes are currently fixed on his phone, thumbs tapping rapidly as he walks in.

My stomach sinks. This is not how a prince should enter a room full of exceptional women who have cleared their schedules just to meet him.

“Hugo, darling,” the queen calls, beckoning him over. “Come meet the wonderful women Emily has invited.”

He looks up, pockets his phone, and walks toward us. His smile is polite but doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Your Highness,” I say, trying to keep my voice professional despite my irritation. “I’m so glad you could join us. There are some amazing women here tonight I think you’ll enjoy meeting.”

“Sounds good.” He nods at me, then turns to kiss his mother’s cheek. “Mother, you look lovely as always.”

“These women have traveled from all over to meet you,” I remind him gently. “Dr. Fournier over there is pioneering a new surgical technique, and Ms. Beaumont is a concert pianist who’s performed at Carnegie Hall.”

“Yes, very impressive,” he says, but his eyes are already darting around the room, as if looking for an escape route.

I take a deep breath. “Shall I introduce you to some of them?”

Before he can answer, his phone buzzes. He pulls it back out immediately. “Excuse me, I need to take this.”

And just like that, he walks away, phone pressed to his ear, leaving me standing next to the queen with my mouth slightly open.

“I’m so sorry,” she says softly.

My heart nearly cracks in two. A queen shouldn’t be apologizing to me. An older woman shouldn’t be apologizing to me. And a mother certainly shouldn’t be apologizing for her grown son.

I straighten my shoulders. I didn’t become LA’s top matchmaker by giving up easily. “Don’t worry, Your Majesty. The night is young.”

For the next hour, I try every trick in my professional matchmaking handbook.

I personally escort Prince Hugo to speak with a brilliant architect who designed a children’s hospital, only to have him excuse himself after five minutes when his phone buzzes again.

I arrange for him to sit next to a charming entrepreneur during the appetizer course, but he spends most of the time checking emails.

By the time dessert is served — tiny chocolate-mousse cups with gold leaf that the palace chef prepared specially — my cheerful professional smile feels glued to my face.

Hugo has spoken to maybe half the women in the room, and none for longer than a couple minutes.

Several times I’ve caught him checking his watch.

“Is there an urgent matter at the office this evening?” I finally ask him when I catch him alone by the drink table.

He looks at me, a hint of surprise in his eyes. “There are always urgent matters. Marzieu may be small, but it has big responsibilities.”

“I understand,” I say, though my voice makes it clear I don’t. “But these women have put aside their own important work to be here tonight. They deserve your full attention.”

A flicker of guilt crosses his face. “You’re right. I apologize.”

The response is unexpected, and there it is again — a bit of the other Hugo peeking through the facade.

“I will go speak with them.” He takes a step then pauses. “I did tell my mother I would try…”

“Thank you,” I exhale.

He straightens his tie and walks toward a group of women chatting by the windows. I watch with satisfaction as he engages them in conversation, nodding and even smiling at something one of them says.

Except my victory is short-lived. Not five minutes later, his phone comes out again, and he’s stepping away with an apologetic gesture to the women.

“I could strangle him with his own tie,” I mutter to myself.

The night crawls on, Hugo disappearing regularly to take calls or respond to urgent messages.

At one point, I see him chatting animatedly with Chef Remy about the menu, only for his phone to vibrate violently against the polished marble countertop, drawing his eyes away from a truly interesting conversation.

By the time the clock strikes eleven, most of the women have left. A few give me sympathetic smiles as they exit, their hopes of a possible romantic match replaced by faint frustration. All my efforts, all my careful preparation, it’s all been wasted.

Hugo stands in the corner of the room, scrolling — scrolling! — on his phone, wine glass in hand. He’s not even working at this point; he’s probably watching reels on social media!

And here it is. My breaking point. I can’t stand by and be a silent spectator any longer.

“Hugo,” I call out, making my way toward him, my heels clicking sharply against the marble floor.

He turns at the sound of his name and gives me a cursory nod, but his expression changes when he sees mine. For once tonight, I’m not wearing a professional smile.

“Yes?” he asks, setting down his glass of wine and turning toward me fully.

“Are you really that obtuse or are you just pretending?” The words tumble out before I can filter them.

His eyes widen at my sudden harshness but he doesn’t interrupt me.

“You’ve done nothing tonight but prove how uninterested you are in this entire process.

You said you’d try, Hugo. Try to connect with these women, try to open yourself to the possibility of finding love. ”

He stiffens at my words. “I’ve been doing my best?—”

“Your best ?” I cut him off, my voice rising in frustration.

“Hovering over your phone is not your best. You’ve barely spoken a word to these amazing women who cleared their busy schedules for you!

These women who are doing remarkable things and have so much to offer someone who would just pay attention! ”

He flinches slightly, but I don’t back down. His excuses couldn’t even come close to making up for the embarrassment that tonight has become.

“Do you realize how hurt your mother is? She’s been trying so hard to be understanding, but even she can’t ignore how disrespectful you’ve been tonight.” The words hang heavily in the air between us, and I see a flicker of regret in his eyes.

“I didn’t mean to… hurt her.” His voice drops and he looks as if he’s been hit by a bullet train.

Anger gives way to a sudden exhaustion. I feel drained, defeated. I can’t bring myself to say any more. Turning on my heel, I take long strides away from him, leaving him standing there, all alone in the silent ballroom, staring blankly at the polished floor.

Good. Let him be hurt. Let him think about what he’s done, about how his actions affect other people. Maybe he’ll wake up tomorrow and decide to turn over a new leaf.

Not that I’ll be holding my breath.