Page 26

EMILY

T he ice in my glass gives a final surrender, melting into the amber liquid with a soft clink. I stare at it like it holds answers, while Nova’s voice floats beside me, familiar as my own heartbeat.

The bar wraps around us with its usual blanket of low lighting and murmured conversations, but tonight even this comfortable ritual feels hollow.

I’ve ranked all the contestants for the dating show in record time — work that should have taken days, not hours — but efficiency brings no satisfaction.

Not when my thoughts keep circling back to the same old place.

“Earth to Emily,” Nova says, waving her perfectly manicured hand in front of my face. “You’ve been staring at that drink like it insulted your grandmother.”

I blink, forcing a smile. “Sorry. Just thinking about work.”

“Liar. I’m calling an official ban on moping tonight.” She taps her glass against mine. “Those rankings are done, and Hugo Bastien is?—”

“Please don’t say his name,” I interrupt, the sound of it making my chest squeeze tight.

She rolls her eyes. “Fine. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is not worthy of your emotional energy.”

I laugh despite myself.

“Speak of the devil,” Nova mutters, her eyes flicking over my shoulder.

For one terrifying second, I think she means Hugo, but when I turn, I see Melissa, a stylist we know from around town. She’s wearing a dress that seems composed entirely of strategically placed sequins, her smile blindingly white as she approaches.

“My two favorite power women!” Melissa gushes, air-kissing both our cheeks. “Please tell me you’re coming to the launch tonight.”

Nova raises an eyebrow. “The perfume thing? I thought that was invite-only.”

“It is, but I’ve got three extra passes.” Melissa dangles shiny gold wristbands between her fingers like bait. “Rooftop at The Palmer. DJ Upscale, champagne, and enough beautiful people to stock a modeling agency. It already started. Let’s go.”

On any other night, I’d politely decline. My usual routine involves being in bed by ten with a book and herbal tea. But tonight, the thought of going home to my quiet apartment, where thoughts of Hugo would inevitably corner me, feels unbearable.

“I’m in,” I say, surprising both Nova and myself.

Nova’s eyebrows shoot up. “Really? You? Miss ‘I-Need-Eight-Hours-of-Sleep’?”

I shrug, suddenly determined. “I finished my work early. Why not celebrate?”

Melissa claps her hands together. “Perfect! I’ll text you the details. It’s going to be fabulous!” She floats away in a cloud of expensive perfume and ambition.

Nova studies me with narrowed eyes. “Who are you and what have you done with Emily?”

“Can’t a girl just want to have fun?” I drain the last of my drink, feeling the warmth spread through my chest.

“A girl, yes. You? You once left a party because it was interfering with your skincare routine.”

“That was an important night cream,” I protest, but a smile tugs at my lips. “Look, I just… I need noise tonight. Distractions. People who aren’t…” I trail off.

Her expression softens. “People who aren’t royalty from small European countries?”

“Exactly.”

“Well, then.” She stands, smoothing down her dress. “Let’s go.”

Thirty minutes later, we step onto the rooftop of The Palmer Hotel, and I immediately understand why this launch is the event of the season.

The space has been transformed into a midnight garden.

Trellises wrapped with tiny lights create winding pathways between clusters of plush seating, and glass orbs hang from invisible strings, catching the light like suspended dewdrops.

“Now, this,” Nova says, grabbing two glasses from a passing tray, “is exactly what you need.”

I accept the champagne, letting the bubbles tickle my nose. The night air holds just enough chill to feel alive against my skin, and for a moment, I allow myself to simply exist in this space, untethered from my troubles.

“I’m going to find the photographer. I’ll regret it if I don’t get some social media content out of this.” Nova squeezes my arm. “Promise me you’ll mingle? No hiding in corners.”

“I promise,” I say, already scanning the crowd for a quiet spot to observe from.

But before I can retreat, I spot a familiar face near one of the light-wrapped trellises. It’s Ricardo, who I haven’t seen since the movie premiere right before I left town. He catches my eye and his face breaks into a wide grin.

“Emily!” He makes his way through the crowd, tall and handsome in a tailored suit that probably costs more than my monthly rent. “The matchmaking maestro herself!”

He wraps me in a warm hug that smells of cedar and joy. Ricardo has always been affectionate — one of the traits I identified as compatible with Leonie.

“Ricardo! I didn’t expect to see you here.” I pull back, genuinely pleased. “Shouldn’t you be filming in New Zealand?”

“Wrapped early.” He gestures with his drink. “Besides, couldn’t miss the chance to support my friends tonight.”

“How is Leonie?” I ask, curious how my match is faring. “How is wedding planning?”

His expression shifts to something softer, more complex.

“She’s… Leonie.” He laughs, but it’s not dismissive.

“We fight about which takeout to order and then stay up all night talking about the universe. Yesterday she threw an orange at my head because I criticized her favorite musician, and this morning she brought me coffee in bed with a note that made me cry.”

I tilt my head, trying to read between the lines. “So… good?”

“Not perfect,” he says, swirling his drink thoughtfully.

“But real. I spent years dating women who never challenged me, who I never fought with. It felt safer.” He looks at me directly.

“But you saw something else for me. You pushed me toward someone who makes me feel everything — the frustration and the joy, the uncertainty and the certainty.”

His words lodge somewhere beneath my ribs. “I remember you were resistant.”

“I was terrified,” he corrects me. “Of the imperfection of it. But real love isn’t a neat package with a bow. It’s messy and complicated and sometimes it hurts. But it’s worth it.” He smiles. “Thank you for that. For seeing what I needed, not what I thought I wanted.”

I feel a prickle of tears and blink them away. “That’s my job.”

“And what about you?” he asks. “The woman who finds everyone else their perfect match — has anyone claimed your heart yet?”

The question hits a tender spot. “I?—”

My response dies in my throat as my eyes catch on a figure across the rooftop. Tall, broad-shouldered, with dark hair that refuses to be fully tamed even when styled. My heart stutters, then races as my brain confirms what my body already knows.

Hugo Bastien is here. The Prince of Marzieu. But… no. Why would he be?

“Emily?” Ricardo follows my gaze. “Ah. You know Prince Hugo?”

I can’t seem to find my voice. Hugo hasn’t seen me yet. He’s listening to a woman, nodding politely, but his posture holds the slight tension I recognize from formal events — he’s being courteous, not engaged.

“We’ve met,” I finally manage. “Through work.”

With horror, I realize Hugo is moving toward me. His eyes have found mine across the space, and they hold me in place more effectively than hands ever could.

“I should check on Leonie,” Ricardo says. “See where she got off to. It was wonderful seeing you, Emily.”

I can’t even respond; my mouth isn’t working properly. He slips away while Hugo keeps advancing on me, and my heart hammers against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.

“Emily.” My name in Hugo’s accent still does things to my insides. “I hoped I might find you here. I asked around and heard?—”

“What are you doing at a perfume launch in Los Angeles? Shouldn’t you be in Marzieu, running a country?”

A small smile touches his lips. “Even princes delegate occasionally. Especially when they have something important to attend to elsewhere.”

“And what’s that?” I ask, though I’m not sure I want the answer.

“You.”

The single word hangs between us, loaded with meaning I’m afraid to interpret.

“Me?” I repeat stupidly.

“I came to tell you that you were wrong.” His eyes never leave mine, intense and clear. “What you said when we last spoke — that you could not find me love, that I was a helpless case.” He shakes his head. “You were wrong.”

My heart drops. So he did find someone after all. The kiss we shared was truly nothing other than that — a silly kiss.

“Oh. Well.” I raise my chin. Clear my throat. Will myself to not cry. “I’m glad to hear it worked out with?—”

“You,” he interrupts. “It is you, Emily.”

I stare at him, uncomprehending.

“You didn’t fail at finding me love,” he continues, stepping closer. “You succeeded beyond measure. You just didn’t realize that the person you were matching me with was yourself.”

The noise of the party fades to a distant hum. “Hugo…”

“You accused me of playing with your feelings, of wanting our time together to be nothing but a fling.” A flash of hurt crosses his face. “Is that really what you thought of me?”

“I thought…” I swallow hard. “I thought I was being practical. You’re a prince. I’m a matchmaker from California. It doesn’t make sense.”

“Love rarely does.” He takes another step closer.

“Emily, I’m not here for just any reason.

I’m here because I won’t walk away again — not unless you can look me in the eyes right now and tell me you don’t feel what I feel.

That there isn’t something between us worth fighting for, worth figuring out, no matter how complicated. ”

His gaze holds mine, unwavering. In it, I see the man who listens intently when others speak, who carries the load of responsibility with grace, who still sometimes sneaks dessert before dinner like the boy he once was.

“I can’t,” I whisper, and tears spill over before I can stop them. “I can’t say that.”

His expression softens, hope replacing uncertainty. “Then tell me what you can say.”

The truth pushes past all my carefully constructed barriers, the professional distance I tried to maintain, the practical objections I listed in my head like bullet points.

“I love you.” The words feel both terrifying and freeing. “I’ve been trying so hard not to, but I do.”

A smile breaks across his face, transforming it. “So, the expert matchmaker finally admits I’m her match?”

“It seems that way.” I laugh through my tears. “Though the logistics are a nightmare.”

“Logistics,” he scoffs, his hands finding my waist. “They are just details. And details can be worked out by people who are determined enough.”

“Are you? Determined?”

“Emily.” He says my name like it’s precious. “I flew across an ocean and tracked you to a rooftop party. I’d say determination isn’t in question.”

And then he’s kissing me, and the crowd and the music disappear. His lips are warm and certain against mine, his hands steady at my waist. I taste promise and possibility and the sweet relief of finally, finally being exactly where I’m meant to be.

When we part, I’m breathless and smiling so hard my cheeks hurt. Around us, the party continues, oblivious to the fact that my entire world has just realigned.

“So,” Hugo says, his forehead resting against mine, “what happens now, matchmaker?”

I look up at him, at this unexpected match that no algorithm could have predicted, and feel a certainty I’ve never known before.

“Now,” I say, “we write our own love story.”