Page 4

EMILY

I press my nose to the car window as the driver winds us up the mountain road.

The palace of Marzieu appears like something from a fairy tale, all white stone and gleaming spires against the blue sky.

My heart does a little skip. Somewhere inside those walls is Prince Hugo Bastien, my newest client and probably my biggest challenge yet.

Sitting taller, I straighten my blazer and remind myself that I’m here because I’m good — really good — at what I do. Five years as a high-profile matchmaker has taught me that everyone, even a stuffy royal, has a heart that needs the right person to unlock it.

The car passes through iron gates taller than two-story buildings, and guards in crisp uniforms nod as we glide by, their faces serious under their caps.

The driveway seems to go on forever, curving through gardens where fountains spray diamonds into the air.

I can’t help but feel like I’m in a movie.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” says my driver, catching my wide eyes in the rearview mirror.

“It’s… a lot,” I answer, which makes him chuckle.

When the car finally stops, a woman in a gray suit is waiting for me. She has the kind of perfect posture that makes my own shoulders straighten reflexively.

“Ms. Neale? I’m Claudette, the royal household coordinator. Welcome to Marzieu Palace.” Her smile is small but seems genuine. “I’ll show you to your quarters.”

I follow her through doors that must be fifteen feet tall and into a lobby with a ceiling that seems to touch the sky.

My shoes click-clack against marble floors, the sound echoing.

Everything gleams — the chandelier overhead, the polished banisters, the golden frames around paintings of stern-looking royals from centuries past.

“This place is beautiful,” I breathe, trying not to gawk like a tourist.

“The east wing was built in 1734,” Claudette says, pride in her voice. “The west wing is newer — only from 1892.”

I almost laugh. In my apartment back home, “newer” means the refrigerator was replaced last year.

My room — or should I say suite — is bigger than my entire apartment.

The bed is draped with silk the color of cream, and the windows look out over gardens that stretch to the mountains beyond.

A sitting area with plush chairs surrounds a marble fireplace.

There’s even a claw-foot bathtub in the adjoining bathroom that I could practically swim in.

“Will this be suitable?” Claudette asks.

“Suitable? It’s amazing!” I bounce a little on my toes, which makes her smile widen slightly.

“Her Majesty would like to meet with you in thirty minutes. Will that give you enough time to refresh yourself?”

I nod, suddenly nervous. “Absolutely. I’ll be ready.”

Once Claudette leaves, I pull out my phone and snap a picture of the room to send to Nova.

Then I quickly freshen up, change into my best navy dress with a structured jacket, and touch up my makeup.

My blond hair falls just below my shoulders, and I decide to leave it down but tuck one side behind my ear with a small pearl clip.

Professional but approachable — that’s my goal.

My heart hammers as I follow another staff member through the maze-like hallways.

I’ve worked with celebrities, tech billionaires, and politicians, but never royalty.

The queen of Marzieu! I practice what I’ll say in my head, going over my usual client introduction spiel.

But when we reach a set of pale blue double doors and they swing open, all my practiced words fly away.

The queen’s sitting room is nothing like I expected.

Instead of another grand, formal space, it’s cozy — almost like a normal living room, if normal living rooms had priceless antiques and silk wallpaper.

Queen Julia sits on a floral sofa, not on a throne, and she’s wearing a simple blue dress rather than a crown and robes.

“Emily! Come in, please.” She stands and extends her hand. She’s tall and elegant, with silver-streaked dark hair pulled into a low bun. Her smile creates gentle creases around her eyes.

“Your Majesty.” I curtsy, which makes her wave her hand dismissively.

“Please, when it’s just us, Julia is fine. Sit, sit.” She gestures to a chair across from her. A tray with tea and delicate cookies sits on the table between us. “Tea?”

“Yes, please.” My voice comes out higher than normal. I clear my throat as she pours.

“I hope your journey was comfortable?” she asks, handing me a cup so fine I can see the light through it.

“Very, thank you. The palace is incredible.”

“It can be a bit much, can’t it?” Her eyes twinkle. “I’ve lived here almost forty years now, and I still get lost sometimes.”

I laugh, surprised by her candor, and feel myself relaxing a bit.

“Emily,” she says, “I want to thank you personally for agreeing to work with Hugo. I understand it was an… unusual request.”

“Not at all. I’m honored to be here.”

She studies me for a moment, then sets down her teacup with a gentle clink. “I should be direct. My son can be… difficult. Especially when it comes to matters of the heart.”

“Most people are,” I say with a smile. “That’s why they need help.”

“Hugo wasn’t always this way.” She sighs and looks toward the window. “Before my husband died — before Hugo had to take on so many royal responsibilities — he was different. Carefree. Sometimes too carefree.”

I nod, knowing from my research about Prince Hugo’s past reputation for partying and dating models. The tabloids had loved him.

“When Gerald — the king — passed so suddenly, Hugo changed overnight. It was like he felt he had to become his father immediately.” Her fingers twist the ring on her left hand. “He threw himself into his duties. Which is admirable, but…”

“But there’s more to life than duty,” I finish softly.

“Exactly.” Her eyes meet mine, grateful.

“Gerald and I had such love. Real love. Those years together were the greatest gift.” Her voice catches slightly.

“I want that for Hugo. He deserves it. But he won’t even consider it.

He talks only of work… That’s why I called you.

They say you don’t just match people based on paper compatibility, but on… something deeper.”

I feel a flush of pride. “I believe everyone has a perfect match out there. My job is finding the person who makes their heart recognize something it’s been waiting for.”

“Yes!” Her eyes light up. “That’s exactly it. Gerald used to say he knew I was the one because his heart got quiet when I entered a room — like it had been noisy his whole life, and suddenly there was peace.”

My own heart squeezes at that. It’s exactly what I want for myself someday, too.

“I won’t lie to you.” The queen smiles ruefully. “He’ll try to scare you off. He’ll be cold. Dismissive.”

“I’ve dealt with reluctant clients before,” I assure her, though none quite like a prince.

“I’m sure you have.” She glances at an elegant clock on the mantel. “Oh! Your meeting with him is in ten minutes — if that’s all right? Two p.m. I thought it best to jump right in.”

My stomach flips. I was expecting at least a day to settle in and prepare, but who am I to say no to a queen? “Of course. No time like the present.”

She rings a small bell, and a young man in a dark suit appears. “Pierre will show you to Hugo’s office. And Emily? Thank you again.”

“You’re welcome, Your Majesty.” I nod my head, still having trouble believing the words “Your Majesty” are coming from my mouth. Not in my wildest dreams did I ever imagine making it this far.

The walk to Prince Hugo’s office feels like a march to battle.

Pierre leads me through corridors lined with portraits and artifacts, twisting and turning so much that I’m not sure I could retrace the steps if I tried.

Finally we arrive in a waiting area, which is decorated finely but doesn’t have the personal touches the queen’s sitting area did.

“His Highness will be with you shortly,” Pierre says, gesturing to a minimalist chair that looks more like a sculpture than furniture.

Two o’clock comes and goes. I scroll through the notes about Hugo on my tablet.

Two fifteen. I shift in the uncomfortable chair.

Two thirty. My initial nervousness is fading, replaced by irritation. By two forty, I’m checking emails on my phone, my foot tapping against the floor.

At ten minutes to three, a door opens and a woman wearing a dress suit steps out. “Ms. Neale? His Highness will see you now.”

I stand, smoothing my dress, and I know I really, really shouldn’t, but I can’t help it… “Our appointment was at two.”

She doesn’t so much as blink. “Yes. The prince is very busy.”

I bite back my response. Rule one of matchmaking: don’t start by antagonizing the client. Even if the client has left you sitting for fifty minutes in the world’s most uncomfortable chair.

The prince’s office is as impersonal as the waiting area.

Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a stunning view of the mountains, but otherwise, the space feels unlived-in.

One wall holds a large abstract painting in shades of — surprise — gray.

The desk is glass and metal, impossibly clear except for the computer and a small plant.

No photos. No personal items. Not even a coffee mug.

Prince Hugo stands from behind the desk as I enter, and there’s a moment where I almost trip over my feet.

Of course, I knew how tall he is, how handsome he is, but being in his presence is something different entirely.

His dark hair is cut short and neat, his jaw sharp enough to cut glass.

His eyes, a deep blue like the sea before a storm, appraise me with cool detachment that matches his charcoal-gray suit.

He doesn’t look like the party boy from the old tabloids. He looks like he’s never had fun in his life.

“Your Highness.” I do a quick curtsy, remembering the proper protocol for meeting royalty — which I was briefed on in an email from the palace before arriving here.