Page 21

HUGO

I scan the room for what feels like the hundredth time tonight, nodding politely at another potential match whose name has already slipped from my memory.

The crystal chandeliers above cast everyone in the same golden light, making it impossible to distinguish one smile from another.

All I can think about is Emily — where she’s gone, if she’s still getting some air on that balcony, and why the thought of someone assuming she was my girlfriend keeps replaying in my head like a favorite song.

“Your Highness, have you met Fredericka?” A woman presents her daughter to me with the practiced grace of someone who’s rehearsed this moment for years.

“I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” I say, my mouth running on autopilot while my mind drifts.

The young woman curtsies, her blond hair cascading over her shoulders in perfect waves. “It’s an honor, Prince Hugo.”

I should be focused on this, but all I can think about is my matchmaker.

My matchmaker. The title seems absurdly inadequate for Emily. She’s more than that — she’s the woman who’s seen me at my most vulnerable, who knows what I’m looking for even when I don’t.

“Prince Hugo?” Fredericka’s mother prompts, and I realize I’ve been silent too long.

“Forgive me,” I say, taking the young woman’s hand and brushing my lips against her knuckles. “I’m afraid I’m a bit distracted this evening.”

After a few more minutes of small talk that I won’t remember tomorrow, I excuse myself and drift toward the edge of the ballroom. The balcony doors are open, letting in a cool breeze that feels like salvation after hours in the crowded room.

That comment earlier from Catherine — assuming Emily and I were together — is stuck to me like a burr.

Such a simple mistake, yet it felt like a flash of clarity in a fog.

The idea of Emily as my girlfriend doesn’t seem ridiculous or impossible.

It feels… right. Like someone finally naming the feeling that’s been growing in me for days.

I lean against a marble column, watching the crowd but seeing only memories of Emily. The way she laughs with her whole body. How she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s concentrating. The slight wrinkle in her brow when she’s about to disagree with me but is trying to be diplomatic.

I have never even wanted a relationship. Never had time for them. All the effort I have put into matchmaking since Emily arrived has been an attempt to throw her and my mother off, to make them leave me alone.

Or that’s what I told myself. The truth is, no one seemed worth the effort. No one until Emily.

It’s crazy. She’s my matchmaker. Mother hired her to find me someone else.

But maybe that’s why it works — she knows exactly what I need because I’ve shown her, even when I was resistant to the idea.

Because that is how smart she is; she sees through every facade, notices every sleight of hand.

There can’t possibly be a woman in the world as smart as her.

I push off from the column, decision made. I need to find her.

The ballroom is a sea of elegant gowns and suits, faces turning to me with practiced smiles as I pass. I nod politely but don’t stop. My feet carry me toward the eastern balcony where I last saw Emily slip away when she said she needed some air.

When I step through the French doors, the night air hits my face, cool and fresh after the perfumed warmth of the ballroom.

The balcony stretches along the side of the ballroom, with stone balustrades overlooking the gardens.

And there she is, at the far end, a solitary figure in her emerald dress, looking out over the moonlit landscape.

Even from behind, I can tell something’s wrong. Her shoulders are tense, drawn up toward her ears. Her hands grip the stone railing so tightly I can see the strain from here. This isn’t someone getting air. This is someone fighting battles in their head.

I approach slowly, giving her time to notice me. The click of my shoes on the stone makes her straighten her spine, but she doesn’t turn around.

“Emily?” My voice sounds different to normal. Softer. Uncertain.

She turns then, and I catch my breath. Her makeup is smudged under one eye, as if she quickly wiped away a tear. But she’s smiling that professional smile that never quite reaches her eyes.

“Hugo,” she says, and the lack of formality reminds me of how far we’ve come from our first meeting. “Are you enjoying the evening?”

I step closer, fighting the urge to reach out and touch her cheek. “Not particularly.”

Her smile falters. “Oh?” There’s a trace of hurt in her voice — but why?

“The problem isn’t the people,” I say carefully. “The problem is me.”

She studies my face, and I wonder what she sees there. Does she notice how I can’t look away from her? How my hands are restless at my sides because they want to be holding hers?

“Did you meet anyone interesting?” she asks, and I can hear the professional matchmaker taking over, pushing whatever was bothering her aside.

I shake my head. “No.”

“Hugo.” My name is half sigh, half scolding. “You have to try. There are at least a dozen women in there who would be perfect for you. Women who tick every box on your list.”

“I tried.”

“Really? Because Rowan Steele is brilliant and passionate about conservation. And Marie has that dry sense of humor you appreciate. And?—”

“Emily,” I cut her off, moving a step closer. “None of them are you.”

The words hang in the air between us. Her lips part in surprise, her eyes widening.

“What?”

“None of them compare to you.” My heart is pounding so hard I’m sure she can hear it. “I’ve been sitting through these introductions for days, meeting women who match every criterion you say is right for me, and none of them make me feel the way you do.”

Her mouth opens and closes, like she’s searching for words and coming up empty. “Hugo, I don’t… I’m your matchmaker.”

“I know.” I run a hand through my hair, probably messing up what my stylist spent an hour on. “I know how this sounds. But I’ve been thinking… and when Catherine believed us to be together, it was like something clicked. I couldn’t stop thinking about it — about you.”

Emily takes a small step back, bumping into the stone railing. “This isn’t— we can’t?—”

“Why not?” I move forward, closing the distance between us. “Tell me you don’t feel it too. This connection between us.”

Her breath catches, and I see the conflict in her eyes — professional responsibility warring with personal desire. “Your mother expects you to marry someone suitable. Someone who?—”

“Someone who understands me,” I finish for her. “Someone who challenges me and makes me laugh and sees me as Hugo, not just the Prince of Marzieu.”

A shiver runs through her that has nothing to do with the night air. “I’m not royal material.”

“Neither was I, according to half the European press.” I smile, remembering some of the less-flattering headlines from my younger days. “But here I am.”

The moonlight catches in her eyes, illuminating the raw emotion there. My hands are trembling slightly as I reach up to touch her cheek, half-expecting her to pull away. She doesn’t.

“I wasn’t looking for this,” she whispers. “I was just doing my job.”

“Maybe you are too good at your job,” I say, my thumb brushing her cheekbone. “You figured out exactly what I need. It just happens to be you.”

A small, helpless laugh escapes her. “This is crazy.”

“Completely.” I’m smiling now, feeling lighter than I have in years. “But it doesn’t feel wrong, does it?”

Her eyes meet mine, and the professional mask is gone. Now I see the Emily who pushes me in the best way possible. The Emily who always has the perfect quip, an answer to everything, a solution to each problem. The Emily who knows my coffee order and my fears and my dreams.

“No,” she admits softly. “It doesn’t feel wrong.”

I lean in slowly, giving her time to back away. She doesn’t. Instead, her eyes flutter closed, and then my lips touch hers.

The kiss is gentle at first, a question more than a demand.

Her lips are soft and taste faintly of champagne.

My hand slides from her cheek to the back of her neck, feeling the silky strands of her hair between my fingers.

A small sound escapes her, somewhere between a sigh and a moan, and something inside me ignites.

The kiss deepens, her mouth opening under mine.

My other arm wraps around her waist, pulling her against me.

Her hands find my shoulders, fingers digging in slightly as if she needs to steady herself.

The cool night air, the sounds of the party inside, the onus of my responsibilities — all of it fades away until there’s nothing but Emily in my arms, her heart beating against mine.

I’m lost in her — the soft curves of her body, the scent of her perfume, the way she kisses me back with a hunger that matches my own. It’s everything I didn’t know I was missing, everything I’ve been searching for.

And then, suddenly, her hands are on my chest, pushing me away. The abrupt loss of contact leaves me dazed, blinking at her in confusion.

Her chest rises and falls rapidly, her lipstick smudged. The vulnerability in her eyes is quickly shuttered, replaced by something that looks too much like regret.

“I can’t do this,” she says, her voice shaking. “I’m sorry, Hugo. I can’t.”

Before I can respond, before I can reach for her again, she is slipping past me, back toward the bright lights of the ballroom. I stand frozen, watching her go, feeling like something precious is sliding through my fingers.

“Emily, wait,” I finally manage, but she doesn’t turn around. Her turquoise dress disappears through the open doors, leaving me alone on the moonlit balcony.

My legs feel unsteady, and I grip the stone railing for support. What just happened? She kissed me back — I know she did. I felt her respond, felt the same connection that’s been growing between us for days. So why did she run?

I stare out at the gardens below, trying to understand. Maybe it’s professional ethics — she’s still technically working for me. Or maybe she’s worried about the public scrutiny that would come from dating a prince. It’s not an easy life; I know that better than anyone.

Or maybe — and this thought twists like a knife — maybe I misread everything. Maybe she was just caught up in the moment, the moonlight and the romance of it all, and I’m the only one who felt something real.

I touch my lips, still warm from her kiss. For five years, I’ve done everything right — put duty first, country first, responsibility first. But tonight, for the first time since my father died, I want to put my heart first.

And my heart is walking away in an emerald-turquoise dress.