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HUGO

S traightening my tie, I walk across the sun-warmed stones of the east patio.

Mother is already seated at the table, her back to the palace gardens, a cup of tea steaming next to her plate.

The look on her face — eyebrows slightly raised, lips pressed into a thin line of determination — tells me everything I need to know about this lunch.

It’s an ambush disguised as a casual meal, and I’m walking right into it.

What she wants to speak about, I have no clue. I only know it will be classically her. There’s always an agenda, always an angle. For her, politics are most at play when she’s not at work as queen of Marzieu.

“Hugo, darling,” she says, rising slightly as I approach. “You’re only seven minutes late today. I’m impressed.”

“Budget meetings ran long,” I say, settling into my chair. A servant materializes at my elbow, pouring water into my glass. “Thank you, Pierre.”

“Always meetings.” Mother sighs, unfolding her napkin with a practiced flick. “Your father managed to be punctual for family meals, you know, even when he was drowning in state matters.”

I reach for a bread roll, tearing it in half instead of responding. She starts most conversations this way lately: your father this, your father that. As if I need reminding of the enormous shoes I’m still trying to fill five years after his death.

“The trade agreement with Bellisime is nearly complete,” I say, changing the subject. “We should see a thirty percent increase in exports by next quarter.”

Mother nods, but her eyes slide away from mine. She’s not interested in trade agreements. “That’s wonderful, dear. The chef has prepared your favorite today — lamb with rosemary potatoes.”

The servants bring our meals, and for a few blessed minutes, we eat in silence.

The lamb is perfect, pink in the center just as I like it.

The sun filters through the climbing roses that frame the patio, casting dappled shadows across the white tablecloth.

In moments like this, I can almost forget the weight of the crown that isn’t yet mine but presses on me all the same.

“Hugo,” Mother says finally, setting down her fork with purpose. “You turn thirty-one next month.”

Here it comes . I take a long sip of water, bracing myself.

“I’m aware of my age, Mother.”

“And yet you show no signs of settling down.” She dabs at her lips with her napkin. “The palace feels so empty these days. So quiet.”

“I thought you preferred quiet. You used to complain about my parties keeping you awake.”

A smile flickers across her face. “That was before…” She doesn’t finish the sentence. She doesn’t need to.

Before Father died. Before everything changed. Before I changed.

“I’ve been thinking,” she continues, “about the Winterstein ball next month. Princess Isabella will be attending.”

I suppress a groan. “Mother?—”

“She’s lovely, intelligent, and the alliance would be beneficial for both our countries.”

“If this is another matchmaking attempt, I’ll save you the trouble.

I don’t have time for dating right now, royal or otherwise.

” I cut another piece of lamb, a bit more forcefully than necessary.

“Surely you should be happy that I’m following in Father’s footsteps?

Building something more important for the family legacy? ”

My mother’s face softens into something like pity. “Your father built our legacy by being more than just a good ruler, Hugo. He was a good man, a good husband, a good father.”

The lamb suddenly tastes like cardboard in my mouth.

My hands clench around my utensils, but I feel a warmth in my chest, an uncomfortable heat that I recognize as guilt.

Five years ago, I was more concerned with which club had the best DJ than with trade agreements or diplomatic relations.

Father’s unexpected death changed everything — for the country, for Mother, for me.

“I am trying to be all those things,” I say quietly. “But right now, Marzieu needs a focused leader. The economic reforms?—”

“Won’t mean anything if there’s no next generation to inherit them.

” She reaches across the table, resting her hand on mine.

Her fingers are cool against my skin. “I’m not asking you to neglect your duties.

I’m asking you to make room in your life for something else. Something that matters just as much.”

Of course. She wants to ensure our bloodline, to make sure it does not die with me, her only child.

“There will be time for marriage later,” I tell her. “I still have plenty of time to have children.”

“It’s not about that.” Her gaze bores into mine. “I want you to find someone special, Hugo. It would ease the stress of your life greatly.”

The roses sway in a gentle breeze, scattering petals across our table. A red one lands on my napkin like a drop of blood. I pick it up, twirling it between my fingers.

“I am happy,” I insist, but the words ring hollow even to my own ears. “I’m fulfilled by my work.”

“Are you? Because from where I sit, you look tired. You work from dawn until midnight, you’ve canceled your last three vacations — and when was the last time you did something just for fun?”

I open my mouth to answer, then close it again. I can’t remember.

“That’s what I thought.” She takes another sip of her tea. “Your father worked hard, yes. But he also played tennis every Thursday, regardless of what crisis was brewing. He took me dancing at least once a month. He read bedtime stories to you every night he was in the palace.”

“I don’t have children to read to,” I point out.

“Precisely my concern.” Her eyes twinkle with humor, but there’s worry behind it.

I sigh, setting down my fork. “Mother, I understand your concern. I do. But marriage isn’t something I can just pencil into my schedule between meetings. It requires time, energy, attention — all things that are currently allocated elsewhere.”

“You sound like you’re discussing a business merger, not finding love.”

“Isn’t that what royal marriages have traditionally been?”

Her face hardens the slightest bit. “Not in this family. Your father and I broke that cycle, and I won’t see you retreat back to the old ways out of — what? Fear? Convenience?”

“It’s not fear,” I protest, though a voice in the back of my mind whispers otherwise. “It’s practicality. The throne comes first. Always.”

“The throne is nothing without the person who sits on it,” she counters. “And that person needs more in their life than reports and meetings and diplomatic functions.”

We stare at each other across the table, two stubborn people at an impasse. The silence stretches between us, filled only by the distant chirping of birds and conversation from some gardeners down by the pond.

Finally, Mother sighs, her shoulders dropping slightly. “I worry about you, Hugo. Not as the queen, but as your mother. I see you pouring everything into being the perfect prince, and I wonder what will be left of you when it’s all said and done.”

Her words hit me harder than I’d like to admit. I look away, focusing on the gardens beyond. The perfect rows of flowers, the meticulously trimmed hedges — everything in its right place, controlled, orderly. Like my life.

“I’m doing what I must,” I say softly. “What he would have wanted.”

“Your father would have wanted you to be happy,” she says, equally softly. “To find balance. To live, not just rule.”

I don’t know how to respond to that. The truth is, diving into royal duties after Father’s death gave me purpose when I was drowning in grief and responsibility.

It was easier to focus on meetings and signing papers and making decisions for other people than to face the emptiness in the palace, the absence at the head of the table, the crown that would pass to me far sooner than any of us had expected.

“Look at this.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a glossy magazine. The cover shows some actress I vaguely recognize, her smile blindingly white against spray-tanned skin.

My mother flips through the pages, stopping at a dog-eared section.

Even upside-down, I can make out the headline: “Hollywood’s Most Notorious Bachelor Pops the Question!

” accompanied by a photo of Ricardo Ruiz — whose action movies I secretly enjoy — looking besotted next to a woman at some event.

I have a sinking feeling in my stomach that has nothing to do with the lamb.

“Did you see this?” She pushes the magazine across the table toward me.

I glance down at the article, feigning minimal interest while scanning the text.

Ricardo Ruiz, Hollywood’s perennial playboy, finally proposed at forty-two, after years of high-profile relationships that never lasted longer than his movie shoots.

The article describes his bride-to-be as “the perfect match” and “his equal in every way.”

“I wasn’t aware you followed celebrity gossip,” I say, pushing the magazine back without picking it up.

“I don’t, typically.” She taps one manicured finger against a paragraph near the bottom of the page. “But this particular story caught my attention. A Hollywood matchmaker brought the two of them together.”

“A matchmaker? Really? And I suppose you would like the same for me?” I set the magazine down, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. “Next you’ll be telling me you’ve consulted a fortune teller about my romantic future.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Hugo.” She waves her hand dismissively. “Fortune tellers are unreliable. Emily Neale, on the other hand, has a ninety-seven percent success rate.”

“Among Hollywood celebrities, whose relationships are about as stable as our southern border dispute.”

“Ricardo Ruiz had a reputation worse than yours ever was,” Mother points out. “And look at him now — soon to be married.”

“Good for him.” I push my plate away, suddenly losing my appetite. “But I’m not a movie star looking for someone to accompany me on red carpets. I’m the crown prince of Marzieu. My situation is somewhat different.”

“Which is precisely why someone like Emily would be perfect. She works with high-profile clients who value discretion. She understands the unique challenges that come with public life. And most importantly, she gets results.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling a headache forming behind my eyes.

“Mother, I appreciate your concern, but I absolutely don’t have time for whatever scheme you’re concocting.

The international summit is three weeks away, the budget needs final approval by Friday, and the renovation committee needs my input on the historic preservation elements?—”

“I’ve already booked an appointment,” she interrupts, her voice calm but brooking no argument. “Next Monday at two o’clock.”

I stare at her, momentarily speechless. The queen of Marzieu looks back at me placidly, as if she’s just informed me of a routine dental checkup rather than an appointment with a professional matchmaker.

“You did what?” I finally manage.

“She normally has a waiting list, you know,” Mother continues, ignoring my incredulous expression. “But when I explained the situation?—”

I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “And I’m sure the fact that you’re the queen had nothing to do with jumping the line.”

“Well,” Mother says with a small smile, “it didn’t hurt.”

A staff member approaches to clear our plates, and I wait until he’s gone before continuing. “I’m not going.”

“Yes you are.” She folds her napkin precisely, placing it beside her water glass. “Consider it a diplomatic duty if that makes it easier to swallow.”

“Diplomatic—” I shake my head in disbelief. “How is meeting with a matchmaker diplomatic?”

“A stable monarchy requires succession, Hugo. The people want to see their future king settled and secure.” Her voice softens. “And your mother wants to see her son happy.”

“I’ll find someone on my own time,” I insist, though we both know my schedule allows no room for dating. The last woman I took to dinner was the finance minister’s daughter, and that was purely to discuss the new capital gains tax structure.

“You haven’t been on a real date in years,” Mother says, as if reading my thoughts. “The last time you brought a woman to a state function, she turned out to be a journalist doing an exposé on royal privilege.”

I wince at the memory. That had been an embarrassing oversight on the part of my security team. “All the more reason to not trust a stranger with my love life.”

“Emily Neale isn’t just any stranger. She’s the best in her field.”

“Her field is ridiculous.” I gesture to the magazine, where Ricardo Ruiz grins up at us. “He’s an actor who needed a publicity boost for his fading career. I’m a prince preparing to lead a nation.”

Mother regards me steadily, her expression unreadable. Then she reaches across the table and flips to another page in the magazine. “Emily has worked with CEOs, sports stars, tech billionaires…”

I scan the article again, my skepticism undiminished. “And you believe this puff piece?”

“I believe in results. And in keeping an open mind.” She taps the photo of Emily Neale. “One meeting, Hugo. That’s all I’m asking.”

“And if I refuse?”

Her smile turns sweet in a way that immediately makes me wary. “Then I’ll be forced to revisit the royal tradition of arranged marriages. I’ve already received inquiries from three royal houses and two billionaire families with eligible daughters.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I’m the queen,” she says simply. “And more importantly, I’m your mother. I’ll do whatever it takes to ensure both your happiness and the security of our monarchy.”

I study her face, looking for signs that she’s bluffing, but find none. She’d never force me into an arranged marriage — I don’t think — but she’d certainly make my life difficult if I refuse this small concession.

“One meeting,” I finally say, the words leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. “I’ll meet with this woman once, to prove to you that this is a waste of time, and then you’ll drop the subject until I am ready to bring it back up.”

“Not one meeting, no. You will go on any dates Emily arranges for you. If she either finds you a match or she deems you unmatchable… which is unlikely… then I will drop the matter.”

“Fine,” I sigh.

“Wonderful!” She beams at me like I’ve just agreed to world peace instead of a matchmaking appointment. “You won’t regret this, Hugo.”

“I already do,” I mutter.