Page 25

EMILY

“ E mily, you’re with us, right?” Elliot’s voice snaps me back to attention.

Elliot is the executive producer — a man with gelled hair and a smile that never reaches his eyes. He taps his expensive pen against the table and raises his eyebrows at me.

“Sorry, just taking notes,” I lie, quickly flipping to a fresh page in my notebook.

The hearts I’ve been drawing mock me. I should be paying attention, but instead I feel like a bored kid in school.

I’m supposed to be helping plan a reality dating show where contestants compete for love in a tropical mansion, but I feel like a fish out of water.

This whole week of meetings has been nothing like what I expected, and the vision of the show…

it’s more than lacking, in my humble opinion.

“As I was saying,” Elliot continues to the group, “we need the drama to start early. Maybe we pair the fitness model with the kindergarten teacher right away. Opposites attract, but they’ll clash by episode three, guaranteed.”

The other producers nod along. There are five of us crammed around this table in the production office, the walls covered with headshots of the contestants — beautiful people with perfect teeth who applied to find love on TV.

I wonder if any of them really believe it will work. Good for them, if so.

Or not.

Honestly, I’m starting to wonder if love is truly meant for everyone. Maybe some people — like me — are destined to wander the Earth all alone for their entire lives.

My throat feels dry. “I thought the point was to make successful matches, not to create conflicts.”

Elliot laughs like I’ve told a joke. “Emily, Emily, Emily. The point is to get viewers. Conflict gets viewers. Happy couples are boring to watch.”

I bite the inside of my cheek and don’t say anything. When Elliot and I first got on a call about the show, it sounded different. “We want a real matchmaker,” he had said over the line. “Someone with credentials to give the show legitimacy. Someone who knows love when they see it.”

I took the job because it seemed like a good distraction. After what happened with Hugo, I needed something new to focus on. Something that wasn’t sitting in my apartment remembering the way his accent made ordinary words sound like poetry, or how his lips felt when they pressed against mine.

I thought I would be doing good on this show, not only helping contestants find love but giving viewers tips on it as well. But so far I’m getting the impression that the producers only want me here to stand next to the infinity pool, introduce people, and lend my name’s reputation.

“Maybe we should do compatibility assessments,” I suggest, pulling myself back to the present. “I have methods that have worked for my clients for years. We could actually help these people find real connections.”

An assistant producer, a woman with sharp bangs and sharper eyes, snorts. “That’s cute, but we need people who look good fighting and kissing. Preferably both in the same episode.”

I feel my cheeks grow warm. This isn’t me. This isn’t what I do.

For years, I’ve built my reputation on thoughtfulness and care. I interview my clients for hours. I learn their histories, their hopes, their secret fears about love. I introduce people who might actually build lives together.

Biting my lip, I look away. Usually, I would stand my ground, but since arriving back in LA, I feel like a different person.

I’m constantly on edge, feeling like the slightest thing could tip me into a breakdown.

Hugo’s always on my mind, like a movie playing on repeat. Did I do the right thing by leaving?

Yes. Of course I did. Why am I even still asking myself that?

The meeting drags on for another forty minutes. By the time we break, my notepad is filled with more doodles than notes, and my patience has worn thin.

Elliot catches me as I’m gathering my things. He leans against the doorframe, blocking my exit with his body. “Walk with me to the parking lot? I want to chat.”

I nod, although what I really want is to go home, change into sweatpants, and call Nova to complain.

“You seem hesitant about our approach,” he says as we walk through the hallway. The walls are lined with posters from the network’s other reality shows — shows filled with people crying, people kissing, people throwing drinks at each other. The kind of stuff that brings in money but has no heart.

“I just think we’re missing an opportunity,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “What if we did something revolutionary and actually matched people who might fall in love? Real love, not just for-the-cameras love.”

Elliot stops walking and turns to face me. “Emily, you’re here because you have a reputation. Your name gives us credibility. But this is television, not your boutique matchmaking service. We need drama and tears and make-out sessions in the hot tub.”

My stomach clenches. So, my suspicions were correct. I’m a prop, not a professional.

“Give me a chance,” I press. “Let me do one round of actual compatibility assessments. If it doesn’t work for television, we’ll do it your way.”

For a moment, I think I see consideration in his eyes. Then he shakes his head.

“The network approved this format. The contestants signed up for this format. We start filming in three weeks.” He pats my shoulder like I’m a child who doesn’t understand basic concepts. “Trust me, this is how these shows work.”

I walk across the parking lot alone, the bright sun beating down in a way that should feel cheerful but just makes my skin prickle. The drive home is a blur of traffic and radio songs that all seem to be about lost love. At a red light, my mind wanders to Hugo again.

Prince Hugo… the man who looked at me like I was a puzzle he wanted to solve. The man who fought me, pushed me away, made my job difficult — then kissed me in an act that felt akin to my heart being torn out.

The car behind me honks, and I jerk only to find the light has turned green. Sighing, I press the gas pedal and push the memory away.

My apartment feels too empty when I get home.

It’s a nice place — the kind of place a successful businesswoman should have.

Modern furniture, tasteful art, a view of a slice of the city from the balcony.

But lately, it feels like nothing more than a hotel room.

Just a place I stay, not a place I live.

Kicking off my heels, I pour myself a glass of wine. It’s only four p.m., but today feels like a wine-before-dinner kind of day. I curl up on my couch and call Nova, who answers on the second ring.

“There’s my favorite matchmaker. How’s the glamorous world of television?”

“It’s awful,” I say, not bothering to hide my frustration. “They don’t care about actually matching people. They just want drama and ratings.”

“I’m sorry, babe.” I can hear the sound of her office in the background — phones ringing, people talking. “Did you really expect it to be like your regular job?”

“I expected it to at least pretend to care about the premise,” I sigh. “They’re going to pair people up just to watch them fight. It feels wrong.”

“I’m sorry I hooked you up with it. Maybe you should quit.”

I take a sip of wine. “It’s not that easy.”

“Why not? Your business is doing well. You don’t need this job. And yeah, it will lead to more exposure for you, but if that exposure doesn’t accurately represent you, it’s probably not a good thing.”

She’s right, but I can’t explain the real reason I took it: that after leaving Hugo behind, I needed something new and different to throw myself into.

That the thought of going back to how my life was before feels like rubbing salt in my own wound.

I’m in my same apartment, in the same city, but at least I have the distraction of a new job.

“I signed a contract,” I say instead. “And maybe I can make it better from the inside out.”

Nova makes a sound that’s half laugh, half sigh. “Emily Neale, always trying to fix things. You have the best heart, but some things can’t be fixed, you know.”

I wonder if she’s talking about the show or about me.

“Anyway,” she continues, “drinks tonight. My treat. You can tell me all about the beautiful-but-doomed contestants, and I’ll tell you about the actor who threw a smoothie at his manager in my office yesterday.”

“Sounds wonderfully distracting,” I tell her. “Our usual spot? Seven?”

“See you there. Gotta run. I have another call coming in. Love ya.”

After we hang up, I stare out my window at the palm trees swaying in the breeze.

Los Angeles continues its eternal summer, indifferent to my problems. Meanwhile I sit here, wondering what’s next in my life, wondering where I even want to go.

I promised myself a vacation and some dates with hot guys, but right now all I want to do is crawl under a rock and never come out.

My phone pings, and I open my email to find a message from the production company with attachments of all the contestant profiles for me to review. Twenty-four beautiful strangers who think they might find love under hot lights and watchful cameras.

I should open the files. I should be professional. Instead, I find myself typing “Prince Hugo Bastien” into my search bar. It’s a bad habit I can’t seem to break.

The results are the same as always. News about his royal duties. Photos of him at official functions, looking handsome and serious in his tailored suits. A recent article about speculation on who he might marry now that he’s thirty-one and the country is eager for a future queen.

No photos of us together, of course. No one knew about his matchmaker, thanks to the NDAs the palace had all the women and their teams sign.

My chest aches with an uncomfortable heat that I recognize as heartbreak.

Closing the browser, I open the contestant files instead. Maybe I can’t fix my own love life. Maybe I can’t even fix this shallow TV show. But I can at least try to do my job with some integrity.

But the words blur in front of my eyes, and guilt gnaws at my conscience. These people have dreams and fears and hopes, just like my regular clients. Just like me. They deserve better than to be set up for failure in the name of entertainment.

My phone rings again. It’s Elliot.

“Change of plans,” he says without greeting. “The network wants to move up filming. We start in two weeks, not three. I need your contestant rankings tomorrow.”

“But I’ve barely looked at their profiles,” I protest. “I need time to?—”

“Just rank them on chemistry potential and camera appeal,” he interrupts. “That’s all we really need from you right now.”

The call ends before I can argue. I stare at my phone, feeling my life crumble a little more around me.

This isn’t what I wanted. This isn’t what I built.

I think of Hugo, who stepped up and became the prince his country needed when his father died. He made the hard choice because it was right, even when it hurt.

Maybe it’s time for me to make a hard choice too.

I look at the contestant files again, but this time with new determination. If I’m going to do this, I’ll do it my way. I’ll find the real potential matches in this group, and I’ll fight for them to have a chance.

Elliot and the network might not care about real love, but I do. It’s the one thing I’ve always believed in, even when my own heart is breaking.

Maybe especially then.