Page 18 of His Royal Matchmaker

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 differentfrom 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.

CHAPTER 9

EMILY

The palace ballroom sparkles like it’s been dusted with diamonds — and I’m the fairy godmother who made it happen. I stand by the entrance, clipboard in hand, checking off final details as the staff place crystal glasses on white-clothed tables. My heart beats fast with excitement and a touch of nerves. I’ve organized events for celebrities and billionaires before, but never for actual royalty. Tonight, Prince Hugo of Marzieu will meet the amazing women I’ve handpicked for him.

The only piece that still needs to fall into place is his cooperation… and that is, sadly, out of my hands.

“Ms. Emily, where would you like the flower arrangements?” A young server approaches, carrying a vase of cream-colored roses.

“Center of each table, please.” I smile, making a check on my list. “The name cards should go to the right of each place setting.”

The server nods and hurries away. I take a deep breath, admiring my work. For something put together in just a few days, thismixer looks incredible. The chandeliers cast a warm glow over the room, and soft music plays from hidden speakers. I’ve transformed the stuffy royal ballroom into something inviting and casual — well, as casual as a palace can get.

The doors swing open, and the first guests begin to arrive. Twenty-five women, each one carefully selected from hundreds of profiles and personally interviewed by me over video chat in the past seventy-two hours. I’ve barely slept, but it was worth it. These women represent the best Marzieu and neighboring countries have to offer — doctors saving lives, artists changing perspectives, business leaders building empires.

“Dr. Renée Corbin.” I greet a tall woman with dark hair pulled into a neat bun. “So glad you could make it. I loved hearing about your work with Doctors Without Borders.”

“Thank you for inviting me,” she says, her voice soft but confident. “Though I must admit, I was surprised to get your call. Meeting a prince wasn’t on my to-do list this week.”

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