Page 20 of His Royal Matchmaker

The response is unexpected, and there it is again — a bit of the other Hugo peeking through the façade.

“I will go speak with them.” He takes a step then pauses. “I did tell my mother I would try…”

“Thank you,” I exhale.

He straightens his tie and walks toward a group of women chatting by the windows. I watch with satisfaction as he engages them in conversation, nodding and even smiling at something one of them says.

Except my victory is short-lived. Not five minutes later, his phone comes out again, and he’s stepping away with an apologetic gesture to the women.

“I could strangle him with his own tie,” I mutter to myself.

The night crawls on, Hugo disappearing regularly to take calls or respond to urgent messages. At one point, I see him chatting animatedly with Chef Remy about the menu, only for his phone to vibrate violently against the polished marble countertop, drawing his eyes away from a truly interesting conversation.

By the time the clock strikes eleven, most of the women have left. A few give me sympathetic smiles as they exit, their hopes of a possible romantic match replaced by faint frustration. All my efforts, all my careful preparation, it’s all been wasted.

Hugo stands in the corner of the room, scrolling —scrolling!— on his phone, wine glass in hand. He’s not even working at this point; he’s probably watching reels on social media!

And here it is. My breaking point. I can’t stand by and be a silent spectator any longer.

“Hugo,” I call out, making my way toward him, my heels clicking sharply against the marble floor.

He turns at the sound of his name and gives me a cursory nod, but his expression changes when he sees mine. For once tonight, I’m not wearing a professional smile.

“Yes?” he asks, setting down his glass of wine and turning toward me fully.

“Are you really that obtuse or are you just pretending?” The words tumble out before I can filter them. His eyes widen at my sudden harshness but he doesn’t interrupt me. “You’ve done nothing tonight but prove how uninterested you are in this entire process. You said you’d try, Hugo. Try to connect with these women, try to open yourself to the possibility of finding love.”

He stiffens at my words. “I’ve been doing my best?—”

“Yourbest?” I cut him off, my voice rising in frustration. “Hovering over your phone is not your best. You’ve barely spoken a word to these amazing women who cleared their busy schedules for you! These women who are doing remarkable things and have so much to offer someone who would just pay attention!”

He flinches slightly, but I don’t back down. His excuses couldn’t even come close to making up for the embarrassment that tonight has become.

“Do you realize how hurt your mother is? She’s been trying so hard to be understanding, but even she can’t ignore how disrespectful you’ve been tonight.” The words hang heavily in the air between us, and I see a flicker of regret in his eyes.

“I didn’t mean to… hurt her.” His voice drops and he looks as if he’s been hit by a bullet train.

Anger gives way to a sudden exhaustion. I feel drained, defeated. I can’t bring myself to say any more. Turning on my heel, I take long strides away from him, leaving him standing there, all alone in the silent ballroom, staring blankly at the polished floor.

Good. Let him be hurt. Let him think about what he’s done, about how his actions affect other people. Maybe he’ll wake up tomorrow and decide to turn over a new leaf.

Not that I’ll be holding my breath.

CHAPTER 10

HUGO

Istare at my reflection in the mirror, straightening the tie that feels more like a noose today. Last night’s mixer plays in my mind like a badly edited movie — me dodging conversations, hiding behind potted plants, and ignoring my mother’s increasingly desperate glances. And then there was Emily with her bright eyes narrowing each time I slipped away from another potential bride. I’d hoped to sink her whole operation last night, and I might have just succeeded.

I adjust my cufflinks — my father’s, gold with the royal crest of Marzieu embedded in sapphires. He used to fiddle with them during tedious meetings, a habit I’ve inherited. Five years since his heart gave out, and I still reach for the phone sometimes, wanting to ask his advice.

What would he say about what is happening now? I like to think he would be on my side, that my mother is unnecessarily pushing me into marriage. I can’t know for sure, but he was a man devoted to his job first and foremost. Leading a country is no small task, and I hope that he would have been proud of how intensely I have put my nose to the grindstone.

I run my fingers through my hair, still damp from the shower. The bags under my eyes tell the story of last night’s restless sleep, guilt mixing with determination. I do feel bad about disappointing my mother. And even Emily — it’s not her fault she was hired to perform an impossible task. But I can’t give in.

Marriage is not on my agenda. Not now, not soon. Possibly not ever.

I have a country to help run. I have trade agreements to negotiate. I have ceremonial duties and charitable foundations and a thousand other responsibilities that consume my days and keep me awake at night. I don’t have space for a wife who would need attention, affection, time — all things I can’t spare.

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