Page 9

EMILY

T he phone rings four times before Nova picks up.

I eagerly sit down on the edge of the enormous four-poster bed, my feet barely touching the floor.

This guest room I’m staying in is bigger than my entire apartment back home, with ceilings that stretch so high I feel like a doll in a giant’s dollhouse.

I can’t wait to tell Nova everything about my first day shadowing Prince Workaholic of Marzieu.

“Emily!” Her voice explodes through the speaker. “Spill. Is he as handsome in person? Did you find him a wife yet? Are you having a royal romance of your own?”

I laugh and flop backward onto the silk duvet, phone pressed to my ear. “Slow down! One question at a time, please.”

“Fine. Is he as good as the pictures?”

I stare at the intricate patterns on the ceiling, considering. “Objectively speaking, yes. If you like tall, broad-shouldered men with perfect hair and jawlines that could cut glass.”

“So… yes.”

“He’s easy on the eyes,” I admit. “But his personality? That’s a whole other story.”

“Uh-oh. That bad?”

I sit up and tuck my legs under me. “In our first meeting, he gave me next to nothing. He basically dug his feet in.”

“Ouch.”

“It’s fine. I can deal with it. I’m shadowing him to get a sense of who he is.”

“Bet he loves that,” she laughs.

I smirk, but then think of the moment Hugo and I shared during his lunch break. It was… unexpected, and left me wondering more about who he truly is.

“He’s hiding his real self,” I murmur, more to myself than her. “He’s so distanced, until he’s… not. I don’t know how to make sense of it. Not yet, anyway.”

Nova laughs. “So, which one is the real Prince Hugo? The ice king or the almost-human?”

“That’s what I need to figure out,” I admit, stopping at the window to look out at the moonlit palace grounds. “It’s like he has two different people inside him, and I don’t know which one to believe.”

“If anyone can crack him open, it’s you,” she says with confidence that warms me. “You’ve matched the unmatchable before. Remember that tech CEO who said he didn’t have time for love?”

“Now married with twins,” I say, smiling at the memory.

“Exactly. So this prince is just another challenge. And you love a challenge.”

We chat for another twenty minutes, Nova filling me in on gossip and her latest date disaster. By the time we hang up, my stomach is growling loudly enough to echo in the cavernous room.

“Time for a snack,” I mutter to myself, slipping on the hotel-style slippers provided by the palace staff.

The hallway outside my room stretches in both directions, lit by elegant sconces that cast a warm glow on the richly colored walls. I try to remember the palace tour. Kitchen… kitchen… was it left or right at the main staircase?

I opt for right and pad quietly down the corridor. The palace feels different at night — more mysterious, less intimidating without staff bustling everywhere. My shadow stretches and shrinks as I pass each light, making me feel like I’m not quite alone.

After a wrong turn and a brief, startled encounter with a stern-looking portrait of some ancient monarch, I find myself in what appears to be the administrative wing. Most offices are dark, but at the end of the hall, light spills from under a door.

Curiosity pulls me forward. The door isn’t fully closed, and through the crack, I see him — Prince Hugo, hunched over a massive desk covered in papers.

His suit jacket is draped over a chair, his tie loosened, and his sleeves rolled up to reveal surprisingly muscular forearms. His brow is furrowed in concentration as he reads something, makes notes, then reaches for another document.

I should continue my snack quest, but something keeps me rooted to the spot.

The Hugo I’m watching now seems different from both versions I met today.

There’s no coldness, no forced civility — just focus and dedication.

He runs a hand through his hair, messing up the perfect style from earlier, and for a second, he looks younger, more vulnerable.

A night guard’s footsteps from around the corner startle me back to my senses. I hurry away before being caught spying on the prince and follow signs to the kitchen that I somehow missed before.

The palace kitchen is enormous and gleaming with stainless steel, but warm too, with copper pots hanging from racks and herbs growing in pots by the window.

A single light illuminates the center island, where I find a plate covered with a napkin and a note: For late-night visitors. Enjoy! - Chef Remy.

The thoughtfulness makes my eyes tear up. I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect at the palace, but I certainly didn’t think it would be this warm and welcoming. Everyone here — with the exception of Hugo — has been mostly kind and caring.

Underneath is a beautiful array of small sandwiches, fruit, and tiny pastries. I grab a plate and help myself, still surprised at how emotional I’m feeling. Maybe being this far from LA has me a little homesick.

As I eat my midnight feast, I can’t stop thinking about Hugo working so late. If he’s still working past midnight, when does he rest? When does he do… anything else?

After finishing my snack and washing my plate — which I know is probably not expected, but I don’t feel right leaving it for someone else to do — I head back to my room. This time, I deliberately take a different route, avoiding the hallway with the office Hugo was in.

Back in my room, I kick off the slippers and curl up in an armchair, hugging my knees to my chest. I should sleep, but Hugo is still on my mind.

Five years ago, he was known as the party prince — always in the tabloids with different women, photographed at clubs and on yachts.

Then his father died suddenly, and I guess Hugo transformed overnight into the stern, serious monarch I met today.

Grabbing my tablet, I pull up the research file I compiled before this trip.

Photos of a young Hugo show a grinning, carefree man with the same face but completely different eyes.

Then, abruptly, the smiles stop. The women disappear.

The party boy becomes a king-in-training, solemn and controlled in every public appearance.

And now he works past midnight, alone in his office, barely taking time to eat.

A strange feeling washes over me — recognition.

How many nights have I stayed up until two a.m. reviewing client profiles?

How many weekends have I spent in my office instead of out living my life?

How many times has Nova tried to drag me to a party, only to have me beg off because “I just need to finish this match first”?

I set my tablet down with a frown. When was the last time I did something just for fun? Took a vacation that wasn’t tied to networking? Had a hobby that wasn’t somehow related to understanding human connection for my matchmaking work?

The realization makes me uncomfortable. I’ve always been proud of my dedication to my career, but seeing it reflected back at me through Hugo’s midnight work sessions feels… different. Sadder, somehow.

“We’re not so different, Your Highness,” I whisper to the empty room.

Then it hits me — that’s exactly the problem. Hugo needs someone who can pull him away from work, remind him to live, bring back some of that joy from his younger days but in a more balanced way. Not another workaholic like me.

I grab my notebook and start scribbling furiously.

This insight changes my approach completely.

I’ve been looking for someone who would understand his dedication to the crown, someone equally serious and duty-bound.

But maybe what he actually needs is the opposite — someone who respects his position but won’t let him hide behind it.

Someone who can make him laugh, who will close his laptop at midnight and drag him out to look at the stars.

The ideas flow faster than I can write them. I’ll need to adjust my interview questions, reconsider the preliminary candidates I’ve selected, maybe even expand the search parameters.

This is what makes matchmaking magical — that moment when something clicks and suddenly you can see the path forward.

Hugo Bastien, Prince of Marzieu, isn’t simply a difficult client.

He’s a man who’s forgotten how to balance duty with joy — and my job isn’t just to find him a politically suitable bride, but to help him remember what it means to live fully.

I work until my eyes start to close on their own, the notebook sliding from my fingers as sleep finally claims me. My last thought before drifting off is that tomorrow, I’ll see Prince Hugo with entirely new eyes. And if I do my job right, he’ll begin to see himself differently too.