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EMILY

T he palace walls seem to watch me as I pace across my guest suite for the hundredth time today. My shoes make soft thumps against the plush carpet — a rhythm that matches my racing heart.

A day since we returned from Paris, three days of replaying our kiss in my mind until the memory feels worn at the edges, like an old photograph handled so many times that the image is blurry.

We haven’t spoken about what happened on that balcony.

Instead, I’ve been ignoring him, hoping that somehow the problem will take care of itself.

Stopping at the window, I press my forehead against the cool glass. The palace gardens stretch out below, perfectly manicured and painfully romantic. A place designed for royal proposals and fairy-tale endings. Not for the hired help to have mental breakdowns over clients.

“This is ridiculous,” I whisper to my reflection. My hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, dark circles forming under my eyes from three nights of terrible sleep. “You’re a matchmaker extraordinaire. Get over this. Get over him.”

My stomach twists with the same sick feeling I’ve had since our return flight on the royal jet — the one where we sat three rows apart because I claimed I needed extra legroom and he pretended to believe me.

The same flight where I spent an hour staring at the back of his perfectly styled hair, remembering how I wanted to mess it up when we kissed on that Parisian balcony.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I lunge for it, desperate for any distraction.

It’s a text from Hugo’s assistant confirming tomorrow’s schedule: breakfast with the royal family, followed by a meeting to review how Hugo’s second dates are going.

The very thought makes my stomach drop to my knees.

How am I supposed to sit across from him and discuss other women? Women who might be perfect for him on paper but who don’t know how his eyes crinkle at the corners when he really smiles, or how he absently taps his fingers when he’s thinking, or how surprisingly soft his lips are when?—

“Stop it,” I groan, pressing a hand to my face.

The thought of him with someone else makes my skin feel too tight, like I might burst out of it.

But I can’t match him with myself either.

I’m not royalty. I’m not politically connected.

I’m not on any of the lists his mother approved.

And most importantly, I’m the person being paid to find him someone else.

The whole situation is beyond unprofessional.

My phone rings, and Nova’s face lights up my screen. My best friend’s timing has always been uncanny, and I answer immediately.

“I’m having an ethical crisis,” I announce before she can even say hello.

“Hi to you too,” she laughs. “What kind of ethical crisis are we talking? Did you eat the last chocolate in the fancy royal box without offering it to the queen?”

“If by chocolate, you mean the prince, and if by eating you meant?—”

She gasps. “You slept with him?!”

“Kissed him.” I close my eyes and groan. “So not as bad… right?”

“That’s even worse! That’s true romance!” Nova’s voice rises an octave. “Emily Neale, you kissed the prince? The prince? The guy whose future wife you’re supposed to be picking out?”

I press my fingers against my temples. “Yes, that prince. In Paris. On a balcony. With the Eiffel Tower lit up in the background. It was like something out of a movie, Nova. And I’m not picking out his wife. I’m helping him meet women.”

“Not when you’re busy shoving your tongue down his throat, you’re not.”

“Nova,” I groan.

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. Seriously… what were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t thinking! That’s the problem.” I pace the room, nibbling at my thumbnail.

“We were at this gala, and someone mistook us for a couple… and then I was out on the balcony, and he came out… And then we were kissing, and it was amazing, and then I panicked and haven’t really spoken to him since. ”

“Ah, the classic kiss-and-avoid,” she says knowingly. “And now?”

“And now I’m supposed to meet with him and his mother tomorrow to see how his most recent round of dates are going.

” I dig my fingers into my scalp, but it does nothing to stop the growing headache.

“I can’t do this, Nova. I can’t sit across from him and talk about how Lady What’s-Her-Face would make an excellent princess when all I can think about is how it felt when he touched me. ”

“Oh, honey.” Her voice softens. “You’ve really got it bad.”

“I know,” I groan. “And it’s not just physical attraction.

I genuinely like him, Nova. He’s dedicated and thoughtful and takes his responsibilities so seriously, and the way we talk…

I don’t know. It’s different. Challenging, like we’re sparring.

And when he talks about Marzieu, his whole face lights up. He wants to do right by his people.”

“So what are you going to do?”

I flop onto the stack of pillows on my huge bed. “I don’t know. I could tell Queen Julia I can’t complete the job, but if word got out, it would make me look terrible. Or I could just… do my job. Present the candidates. Watch him choose someone else. Maybe even plan their royal wedding.”

It’s a joke, but my voice cracks on those last words, and I blink back unexpected tears.

“Okay, well, what if I told you there might be a third option?” she says, her tone shifting to what I recognize as her “business voice.”

“What kind of third option?”

“The kind that comes with its own makeup team and primetime slot.” She pauses dramatically. “Elliot Ridge called me yesterday.”

I sit up straight. “ The Elliot Ridge? The producer who made Love in the Spotlight ?”

“The very same. He’s developing a new dating show, and he wants a professional matchmaker to host it. Not just any professional matchmaker — he specifically asked for you.”

My mind races, trying to process this information. “Me? To host a TV show? Nova, I work behind the scenes. I’m not a TV personality.”

“That’s exactly why he wants you,” she counters. “He’s tired of the fake drama and scripted nonsense. He wants someone authentic who really knows how to create lasting matches. He’s seen your success rate. He called you, and I quote, ‘The real deal in a field full of charlatans.’”

Despite everything, a small thrill runs through me. Being recognized for my work by someone like Elliot Ridge is no small thing. “What did you tell him?”

“I told him you’re currently working with a high-profile client who requires your complete attention and discretion. He was disappointed but said the opportunity would still be there when you finish your current contract. The thing is, Em, they want to start production next week — ideally.”

“Next week?” I echo.

“Yeah, and here’s where it gets interesting,” Nova continues. “When I mentioned the general timeline of your current job, he said they might be willing to push back the production start date, but only by a few weeks. This is a big opportunity, Em. Like, career-changing big.”

I get up and start pacing again, my mind whirling with possibilities. “A dating-show host…”

“Not just any dating show. This would be prestige television with a massive budget and international distribution. You’d be reaching millions of people, not just the select few who can afford your services.”

The thought is both exhilarating and terrifying. “But I’d have to be on camera. People would recognize me.”

“Yes, and they’d pay you obscene amounts of money for the privilege. Plus, think about the book deals, the speaking engagements, the product endorsements. This could set you up for life, Em.”

She’s right. This kind of opportunity doesn’t come along every day.

And the timing… it almost feels like a sign.

A way out of my current predicament that doesn’t involve professional disgrace or watching the man I’m falling for marry someone else.

With such a great excuse to bail out on the royal job early, who wouldn’t take it?

I’ve done so much here already — surely the queen will understand?

“What should I do?” I ask, though part of me already knows the answer.

“I can’t tell you that. But I can tell you that, as your friend and occasional publicist, this is the kind of opportunity most people only dream about.

And as someone who loves you and wants you to be happy, I think you need to ask yourself if staying in Marzieu is going to bring you joy or heartbreak. ”

I sink onto the window seat, looking out at the palace grounds again. In the distance, I can see Hugo walking with his security detail, his posture straight and regal even from afar. My heart does a little flip just at the sight of him.

“What if it’s both?” I whisper.

“Then you have a really tough choice to make,” Nova says. “But maybe it helps to know you have options. You’re not trapped, Emily.”

Three paths stretch before me: fulfill my contract and watch Hugo marry someone else; confess my feelings and risk professional ruin and/or Hugo playing me and breaking my heart; or take the TV offer and leave Marzieu behind.

My fingers find the gold pendant at my neck — a gift from my first successful couple. They had faith in my ability to find them love when they couldn’t find it themselves. I’ve always believed in my gift, my ability to see the connections between people that they sometimes can’t see themselves.

But I never expected to be on this side of the equation — the one needing guidance, the one with the messy feelings and impossible choices.