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HUGO

I wake to the realization that today is the day. The matchmaker begins her shadowing, and I’m already exhausted by the thought.

Five years as the ruling prince of Marzieu, and somehow this feels more invasive than any state dinner or diplomatic crisis I’ve weathered.

The clock reads five forty-three a.m., and while I could sleep another seventeen minutes, my mind is already spinning with meeting agendas and treaty clauses — and now, the added complication of a pipsqueak blonde who thinks she can find me true love.

The shower in my suite has excellent water pressure, one of the few luxuries I genuinely appreciate. I let the scalding water pound against my shoulders, hoping it might wash away my apprehension about this arrangement.

By six fifty, I’m dressed in a tailored navy suit, collar starched to perfection, hair combed back neatly, the breakfast and coffee delivered straight to my room all finished.

The man in the mirror looks nothing like the party boy I was before Father died.

That Hugo disappeared five years ago, buried alongside my father.

This Hugo — the one with the straight back and the serious eyes — takes his coffee black and his responsibilities seriously.

Emily stands at the entrance to my private office, precisely on time, her blond hair pulled back in a neat ponytail.

She wears a professional gray dress that does nothing to dim the spark in her eyes.

Those eyes — blue and alert — scan the room quickly, taking in details I’m sure will end up in some matchmaking file.

“Ms. Neale,” I nod formally, ignoring her request from yesterday to call her by her first name. “I trust you’re prepared for a full day.”

“Of course,” she smiles, and the expression transforms her face from merely pretty to something that makes my chest tighten unexpectedly.

“Just don’t be… invasive.” I clear my throat, attempting to clear the strange sensation in my chest along with it.

“I can’t match you properly if I don’t know you, Your Highness.”

I check my watch. “The morning briefing begins in two minutes. You’ll need to sign additional confidentiality agreements before we proceed.”

“Already did. Your chief of staff had me arrive at six thirty for paperwork.” She holds up a lanyard with a security badge. “I’m officially cleared to hear state secrets, although I promise none of them will make it into your dating profile.”

I’m not sure if I should be amused or horrified at the thought of having a dating profile. Instead of responding, I lead her down the corridor to the conference room where my advisors gather every morning at seven a.m. sharp. Their voices hush as we enter, eyes flickering curiously toward Emily.

“This is Ms. Neale,” I explain tersely. “She’ll be observing today. Proceed as normal.”

Harold, who is both my senior advisor and Guy’s father, clears his throat. “Very well. Let’s begin with the agricultural reports. The drought in the southern region continues, and farmers are requesting emergency funding.”

I take my seat at the head of the table, hyperaware of Emily settling into a chair against the wall behind me. Not too close — she’s maintaining that professional distance she mentioned — but somehow I can feel her presence as clearly as if she were breathing down my neck.

The briefing continues with updates on diplomatic relations with neighboring Bellevoir (strained), tax-revenue projections (lower than expected), and the upcoming visit from Japan’s trade minister (requiring extensive preparation).

Through it all, I take notes, ask questions, and make decisions while trying to ignore the scratch of Emily’s pen on paper.

What is she writing? Is she judging how I handle crises?

Does the way I discuss international trade somehow indicate what type of partner I’d be compatible with?

The questions bounce around my skull, making it difficult to focus on the ambassador’s concerns about fishing rights in our shared waters.

“Your Highness?” my foreign minister prompts, and I realize everyone is looking at me expectantly.

“I apologize. Yes, draft the statement as discussed. I’ll review it before noon.” I straighten my already straight tie, annoyed at my lapse in attention.

When the briefing ends, we move directly to a meeting with the education minister about university funding.

Another room, another set of data projections, and always, always Emily’s presence like a shadow I can’t shake.

She sits quietly in the corner, occasionally making notes but never interrupting.

Her silence is more distracting than if she were chattering constantly.

During the minister’s presentation about scholarship allocations, I steal a glance at her.

She seems genuinely interested in the topic, head tilted slightly as she listens.

For someone who spends her days thinking about romance and compatibility, she appears surprisingly engaged by policies regarding science-research grants. An unexpected depth, perhaps.

The meeting runs long, and we barely have time to walk to the east wing for my ten o’clock appointment with the royal architect about renovations to certain areas of the palace. Emily keeps pace beside me through the long corridors, her short legs somehow managing a brisk stride that matches mine.

“Do you have any questions so far?” I ask, breaking the silence that has stretched between us for nearly three hours.

“Not yet,” she answers simply, and falls quiet again.

The brevity of her response irritates me more than it should. Isn’t her job to ask questions? To learn about my preferences, my personality, my needs? How can she possibly gather information if she just sits there like a silent sponge, absorbing but never engaging?

The architect meeting is particularly uncomfortable because it veers into personal territory when we discuss the renovation of my private apartments.

“The prince prefers natural light and minimalist design,” the architect explains to her team, spreading blueprints across the table. “We’ll be removing the heavy drapes and ornate moldings installed during the previous reign.”

I feel my neck grow warm at having these preferences discussed in front of Emily. It’s silly, really — what do curtains and crown molding have to do with matchmaking? But something about her knowing these intimate details of my living space feels like an invasion.

She makes a note. Just one quick scribble, but I find myself wondering what it says. “Likes minimalism, hates tradition”? “Too modern for a historical royal”? “Would clash with a partner who enjoys baroque design”?

By noon, when we break for a quick lunch in my office (a salad for her, a sandwich for me, both of us eating at my desk while reviewing reports), I can no longer contain my frustration.

“You’re unusually quiet for someone who’s supposed to be getting to know me,” I say, setting down my pen with more force than necessary.

Emily looks up, surprise briefly crossing her face before it settles into a small smile. “Am I? I thought I was being respectful of your work environment.”

“That’s not—” I stop, regrouping. “How are you supposed to gather information if you don’t ask questions?”

She takes a bite of salad, chews thoughtfully. “Who says I’m not gathering information?”

“You’ve barely spoken three sentences all morning.”

“And yet I’ve learned quite a bit.” She sets her fork down and looks directly at me, those blue eyes suddenly piercing.

“You twist your ring when you’re making difficult decisions.

You’re patient with your older advisors but get visibly tense when the younger ones take too long to make their points.

You care deeply about education funding but were distracted during discussions about palace renovations — except when they mentioned your private spaces, which made you uncomfortable. ”

I stare at her, unsettled by the accuracy of her observations.

“You asked five follow-up questions about the drought relief measures,” she continues.

“Which tells me you care about the welfare of your citizens. And you take your coffee black but add a tiny spoonful of sugar when you think no one is watching.” She smiles at my expression.

“I notice things, Your Highness. That’s my job. ”

I clear my throat, suddenly feeling exposed. “I see.”

“Besides,” she adds, her tone lightening, “you made it very clear that you weren’t thrilled about sharing personal details with a matchmaker. I was respecting your boundaries.”

A warmth creeps up my neck, an uncomfortable heat that I recognize as embarrassment. “I may have been… somewhat resistant.”

“Somewhat?” She raises an eyebrow.

I sigh, conceding the point. “I apologize if I’ve been… difficult.”

“Not difficult. Just contradictory.” She puts down her salad fork and leans forward slightly. “You don’t want to share personal information, but you’re annoyed when I don’t ask personal questions. You resent my presence, but you’re bothered when I try to be unobtrusive.”

Her directness catches me off guard. Most people tiptoe around royalty, cushioning their critiques in layers of deference and formality. Emily, it seems, is not most people.

“I’m not used to being… observed,” I admit.

“Aren’t you constantly observed? You’re the prince.”

“That’s different. People observe the role, the crown, the institution, what I’m supposed to be doing… when I’m not doing those things. Not… me .” I’m surprised by my own honesty.

Something softens in her expression. “If it helps, I’m not just watching for flaws or quirks to put in some file. I’m trying to understand who you are beneath the title so I can find someone who will appreciate that person.”

For a moment, we just look at each other across my desk, and I have the strange sensation that she can see parts of me that I’ve kept carefully hidden my entire life. It’s unsettling and oddly relieving at the same time.

The moment breaks when my secretary knocks, reminding me of my next appointment.

“We should go,” I say, standing and straightening my jacket.

Emily nods and rises as well. “For what it’s worth, Your Highness, I think you’re doing just fine with me shadowing you.”

“Please, call me Hugo,” I say impulsively. “At least when we’re not in official meetings. ‘Your Highness’ creates exactly the distance I was just complaining about.”

She stares at me. “That’s quite the offer… Are you going to call me Emily, then?”

I hesitate, having only kept to formalities in order to annoy her. “I suppose so,” I tease.

She smirks knowingly, and I’m struck yet again by how well she reads me. In fact, it is a little terrifying.

“Just so you know,” she adds casually as we approach the meeting room, “I’ll probably start asking more questions now that I know you secretly want me to.”

I groan, already regretting my complaint. “Wonderful.”

Her laugh follows me into the room, light and warm, and despite myself, I find the corners of my mouth turning up in response.