Page 11

HUGO

I stare at my reflection in the mirror, straightening the tie that feels more like a noose today.

Last night’s mixer plays in my mind like a badly edited movie — me dodging conversations, hiding behind potted plants, and ignoring my mother’s increasingly desperate glances.

And then there was Emily with her bright eyes narrowing each time I slipped away from another potential bride.

I’d hoped to sink her whole operation last night, and I might have just succeeded.

I adjust my cufflinks — my father’s, gold with the royal crest of Marzieu embedded in sapphires. He used to fiddle with them during tedious meetings, a habit I’ve inherited. Five years since his heart gave out, and I still reach for the phone sometimes, wanting to ask his advice.

What would he say about what is happening now?

I like to think he would be on my side, that my mother is unnecessarily pushing me into marriage.

I can’t know for sure, but he was a man devoted to his job first and foremost. Leading a country is no small task, and I hope that he would have been proud of how intensely I have put my nose to the grindstone.

I run my fingers through my hair, still damp from the shower.

The bags under my eyes tell the story of last night’s restless sleep, guilt mixing with determination.

I do feel bad about disappointing my mother.

And even Emily — it’s not her fault she was hired to perform an impossible task. But I can’t give in.

Marriage is not on my agenda. Not now, not soon. Possibly not ever.

I have a country to help run. I have trade agreements to negotiate.

I have ceremonial duties and charitable foundations and a thousand other responsibilities that consume my days and keep me awake at night.

I don’t have space for a wife who would need attention, affection, time — all things I can’t spare.

Better to frustrate my mother now than make some woman miserable later.

If I’m stubborn enough, if I sabotage enough of these matchmaking efforts, eventually Mother will give up and forget about even organizing an arranged marriage. She’ll have to. She’s persistent, but I inherited my stubborn streak from her, so this is one battle I might actually win.

Satisfied that I’m doing the right thing, I make my way through the palace corridors toward the east patio, where Mother and I often have breakfast when the weather permits. April in Marzieu is particularly beautiful, with the gardens just coming into bloom.

As I step onto the patio, the sunlight momentarily blinds me. When my vision clears, I freeze. My mother sits at our usual table, elegant as always in a light pink dress, her hair swept up. But she’s not alone.

Emily sits across from her, a cup of coffee cradled in her small hands. She’s wearing a simple white blouse and navy pants, her blond hair pulled back in a ponytail that makes her look younger than her — what? Late twenties?

Great. The matchmaker is still here. I’d hoped she might have given up after last night’s disaster and caught the first flight back to Los Angeles.

“Ah, Hugo!” My mother spots me and waves me over. “You’re just in time for coffee.”

I plaster on my diplomatic smile and approach the table. “Good morning, Mother.” I bend to kiss her cheek, then straighten and give Emily a polite nod. “Hello.”

“Good morning. I was just telling the queen about some of the challenges I’ve encountered in my career.” Her eyes glint. She’s taunting me.

“I imagine I’ve just become your biggest challenge,” I say with a smile that I know doesn’t quite reach my eyes.

“Oh, not at all,” Emily says, matching my fake cheeriness. “I’ve worked with billionaires, celebrities, and politicians. Trust me, Your Highness, difficult clients are my specialty.”

My mother’s eyes dart between us, no doubt sensing the tension crackling in the air.

“Please, sit down,” she says. “Breakfast will be served shortly.”

I take my usual seat beside my mother, leaving Emily across from us. A server appears instantly to pour my coffee, and I thank him quietly.

“I was surprised to see you still in Marzieu,” I say to Emily after taking a sip. “I thought perhaps after last night’s… event… you might be reconsidering the engagement.”

Her smile doesn’t waver. “Oh, I never give up that easily, Prince Hugo. In fact, last night was quite informative.”

“Was it?” I raise an eyebrow.

“Absolutely. I learned a lot about what doesn’t work for you.” She leans forward slightly. “And that helps me figure out what might.”

My mother practically beams. “Emily has come up with a marvelous new approach.”

Wonderful. That’s exactly what I don’t want to hear.

Breakfast arrives — fresh fruit, pastries, and eggs cooked just how I like them. I use the distraction of food to collect my thoughts, but Emily doesn’t give me much time.

“Prince Hugo,” she says, setting down her cup with purpose, “I believe we should take a step back from formal introductions.”

“Meaning?” I cut into my eggs, keeping my expression neutral.

“Meaning I’d like to set you up on a practice date.”

I nearly choke on my food. “I’m sorry?”

“A practice date,” she repeats, as if this is a perfectly normal suggestion to make. “With an actress. Someone who can help us identify any… areas for improvement.”

I carefully set down my fork. “You want me to go on a fake date.”

“I use this technique with some of my more challenging clients,” she explains, apparently unfazed by my skepticism. “It’s especially helpful for people who haven’t dated in a while or who have specific obstacles to overcome.”

“And what obstacles do you think I have?” I ask through gritted teeth.

Her blue eyes meet mine directly. “Well, for starters, you spent most of last night hiding behind either your phone or a fern.”

My mother makes a small sound that might be a suppressed laugh. Traitor .

“I wasn’t hiding,” I say, though we all know that’s exactly what I was doing. “I was taking a strategic approach to a situation I had no interest in being part of.”

Emily nods as if I’ve just proven her point. “Exactly. And a practice date will help me understand what you actually want and need in a partner, rather than just what you’re trying to avoid.”

Nonsense. I see her true strategy clearly.

She wants to occupy my time, to wear down my resistance through sheer persistence.

If I go on this practice date, then she’ll suggest another activity, and another, until eventually I’m so worn down that I agree to an actual date with some princess or duchess just to get all of this over with.

“I appreciate your creativity, but I don’t think that will be necessary,” I say firmly. “I don’t need practice-dating. What I need is for everyone to understand that finding me a wife is not a priority right now.”

My mother’s face falls, and I immediately feel a sharp pang of guilt. Her hands rest in her lap, and I notice she’s wearing the emerald ring my father gave her on their twentieth anniversary. The sight of it makes the guilt intensify.

“Hugo,” she says softly, “I know you’re dedicated to your duties. But your father would have wanted you to find happiness too.”

It’s a low blow, but an effective one. I press my lips together, fighting the wave of emotions that always comes when she invokes my father.

“I think it’s a wonderful idea,” my mother continues. “Just one practice date. What harm could it do?”

Plenty , I think. But the hopeful look on her face is hard to resist. I’ve disappointed her enough already.

“Fine,” I say finally. “One practice date. One.”

Emily’s smile is triumphant, though she tries to hide it behind her coffee cup. “Excellent. I’ll make the arrangements. How does tomorrow evening work for you?”

“My schedule is rather full,” I hedge, though it’s not entirely true. “I’d have to check with my secretary.”

“I already did,” my mother says. “You’re free after four.”

Of course she did. I should have known they’d be coordinating their attack.

“Then I suppose tomorrow evening it is,” I concede, unable to find another escape route. “And who will this date be with?”

“An actress,” Emily says simply.

“Who exactly is this actress?” I ask, setting my fork down deliberately and leaning back in my chair. I cross my arms over my chest, trying and failing to hide my interest.

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that. She’s a professional. Very experienced in helping men like you.”

“Men like me?” I arch one brow at her, intrigued and insulted at the same time.

“Well, workaholics with no social lives.” There’s a teasing lilt in her voice that unnerves me more than any harsh criticism would. It’s too familiar, too friendly for our strictly professional interaction.

My mother chuckles lightly, contributing to the absurdity.

I refuse to let Emily unsettle me further. “And what about you? Will you be joining this practice date?”

Her laughter peals through the morning air as she shakes her head. “No, Prince Hugo. This is strictly between you and your… date. I’ll be receiving her feedback on the date later, though.”

I grimace at the innocent stress on “date.” Already, I’m dreading the evening.

“Let me get this straight — you’ve arranged a date with someone who’s going to critique my every move,” I grumble, sinking against the back of my chair.

“Every move? Oh, no. She’ll only report on your major blunders. Which should, ideally, be minimal.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “Should I interpret that as a vote of confidence?”

Emily smiles, her eyes dancing with mischief. “Interpret it however you wish.”

My phone buzzes and I check my messages, welcoming the distraction.

But when I glance back up, Emily is still smiling, that insufferably knowing smile that makes me feel like she knows more about me than I do — which she probably does, considering the amount of research she’s apparently done for this “project.”

My mother sighs and eyes my phone. “Already, Hugo?”

“Our country cannot wait.”

“I have some work to get to myself.” Emily stands and curtsies at my mother. “Thank you for the invitation to breakfast, Your Majesty. Prince Hugo, I will check in with you later about your upcoming date.”

I force a fake smile, hoping that it looks more like a sneer, then wait until she has left the patio to turn to my mother.

“What did you get me into, Mother?” I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose and pushing aside thoughts of Emily’s alluring eyes.

Why am I suddenly thinking about her in this way? It’s not as if she’s done anything to truly catch my attention. Yes, she’s pretty, but pretty faces are a dime a dozen. And so what if she’s also smart? She’s calculating — conniving, even — and that… well, that is something I respect, actually.

“This is a chance to learn some balance in life, dear,” my mother replies. “Maybe you’ll discard some of your arrogance along the way.”

I huff and cross my arms over my chest. “Arrogance? Me?”

Mother looks at me, her hazel eyes sharp. “Yes, Hugo. You.”

The accusation hangs heavy in the air between us, ringing far truer than I’d like to admit. A pair of royal aides start clearing away the breakfast dishes, leaving us alone on the patio, surrounded by the symphony of nature and under the scrutiny of unperturbed statues.

Finally, Mother sighs and stands. “Do as you will, Hugo?—”

“Which is what you wish.” I gaze steadfast back at her.

She tents her fingers on the edge of the table, and the look on her face is gutting. Pity.

But, no. I don’t deserve that. I never have, and I never will. I am doing exactly as I wish, stepping up to lead this country and?—

“I will see you at supper,” she says, choosing to ignore my comment. Leaning forward, she presses a kiss to the top of my head, making me feel like a child before vacating the patio.

“Wonderful,” I mutter. As if Emily weren’t already infantilizing me enough as it is.