Page 71 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

“Good to know,” I reply, already regretting every decision that led me to this couch.

The lounge was redecorated last month, but it’s somehow not enough. Soft champagne-toned walls, custom seating, curated bookshelves with leather-bound Austen and Auden, it’s all too subtle for Celeste, who radiates a frequency somewhere between “Broadway matinee” and “Russian oligarch’s second ex-wife.”

“I’m not filling out that dreadful online profile,” she declares, patting the Pomeranian’s tufted head. “The font offends me.”

“You do understand our process is algorithm-based,” Olivia says from the corner, arms crossed like she’s trying not to combust. “Compatibility tiers. Personality diagnostics. A proprietary matching logic that…”

“Oh, darling,” Celeste cuts in with a wave of her jeweled fingers. “I don’t do logic. I do chemistry. And good calves.”

I cough to hide my laugh.

“I’ll need face-to-face dates. Seven, to be exact. Like Snow White’s dwarves. One per vice.”

“There’s no….” Olivia starts, but I cut her off gently.

“Celeste,” I say, easing into my most diplomatic voice, “we pride ourselves on customization for elite clients. But we still require some structure.”

She tilts her head, considering. “Fine. I’ll fill out your little survey. But only if I can use my own pen. It’s a Montblanc. Touched by Elton John. I refuse to use anything that hasn’t met a knight.”

I nod solemnly. “Of course.”

***

Thirty minutes later, I am sitting beside her while she answers the intake questions aloud like she’s narrating a scandalous memoir.Ideal partner trait?“Confidence. Or terrible taste in women. Means I’ll be unforgettable.”Do you prefer pets?“I am the pet.”Favorite date activity?“Escaping a minor international incident.”Turnoffs?“Humility. And cargo shorts.”

Olivia whispers near my ear, “She’s either brilliant or sent byPulseMatch.”

“She’s not a mole,” I murmur. “She’s chaos wrapped in Versace.”

“Same thing.”

After the questionnaire, Celeste rises in a flurry of rose silk and rings. “Now. Where’s my first victim?”

“We’re curating matches now,” I say.

“With Luca?”

“No. With his chiropractor. Said he had ‘healing hands and a flirtatious aura.’”

“I’m very married,” I say, amused. “To your algorithm.”

“Well then,” she says, dramatically draping herself across the chair, “let’s make headlines, shall we?”

She struts toward the elevator, dog in tow, leaving behind a scent trail of perfume and crisis. As soon as the door closes, Olivia drops onto the fainting couch with an actual groan.

“I swear to God, if she asks me one more time whether our algorithm has ever matched a royal with a professional mime, I’m going to scream into my blazer.”

“You handled it well,” I say, pouring her a splash of ginger-infused sparkling water.

“She called you Golden Boy six times.”

“That’s honestly not the worst nickname I’ve had today.”

Olivia takes the glass, exhales sharply, and leans back. “If she’s not a mole, she’s a walking distraction. The media’s still watching. PulseMatch is still circling. And now we’re hand-feeding foie gras to a matchmaking performance artist.”

***

Earlier that week, Olivia had tried to give her a standard client onboarding orientation. It lasted seven minutes.

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