Page 4 of His Royal Matchmaker

“Won’t mean anything if there’s no next generation to inherit them.” She reaches across the table, resting her hand on mine. Her fingers are cool against my skin. “I’m not asking you to neglect your duties. I’m asking you to make room in your life for something else. Something that matters just as much.”

Of course. She wants to ensure our bloodline, to make sure it does not die with me, her only child.

“There will be time for marriage later,” I tell her. “I still have plenty of time to have children.”

“It’s not about that.” Her gaze bores into mine. “I want you to find someone special, Hugo. It would ease the stress of your life greatly.”

The roses sway in a gentle breeze, scattering petals across our table. A red one lands on my napkin like a drop of blood. I pick it up, twirling it between my fingers.

“Iamhappy,” I insist, but the words ring hollow even to my own ears. “I’m fulfilled by my work.”

“Are you? Because from where I sit, you look tired. You work from dawn until midnight, you’ve canceled your last three vacations — and when was the last time you did something just for fun?”

I open my mouth to answer, then close it again. I can’t remember.

“That’s what I thought.” She takes another sip of her tea. “Your father worked hard, yes. But he also played tennis every Thursday, regardless of what crisis was brewing. He took me dancing at least once a month. He read bedtime stories to you every night he was in the palace.”

“I don’t have children to read to,” I point out.

“Precisely my concern.” Her eyes twinkle with humor, but there’s worry behind it.

I sigh, setting down my fork. “Mother, I understand your concern. I do. But marriage isn’t something I can just pencil into my schedule between meetings. It requires time, energy, attention — all things that are currently allocated elsewhere.”

“You sound like you’re discussing a business merger, not finding love.”

“Isn’t that what royal marriages have traditionally been?”

Her face hardens the slightest bit. “Not in this family. Your father and I broke that cycle, and I won’t see you retreat back to the old ways out of — what? Fear? Convenience?”

“It’s not fear,” I protest, though a voice in the back of my mind whispers otherwise. “It’s practicality. The throne comes first. Always.”

“The throne is nothing without the person who sits on it,” she counters. “And that person needs more in their life than reports and meetings and diplomatic functions.”

We stare at each other across the table, two stubborn people at an impasse. The silence stretches between us, filled only by the distant chirping of birds and conversation from some gardeners down by the pond.

Finally, Mother sighs, her shoulders dropping slightly. “I worry about you, Hugo. Not as the queen, but as your mother. I see you pouring everything into being the perfect prince, and I wonder what will be left of you when it’s all said and done.”

Her words hit me harder than I’d like to admit. I look away, focusing on the gardens beyond. The perfect rows of flowers, the meticulously trimmed hedges — everything in its right place, controlled, orderly. Like my life.

“I’m doing what I must,” I say softly. “What he would have wanted.”

“Your father would have wanted you to be happy,” she says, equally softly. “To find balance. To live, not just rule.”

I don’t know how to respond to that. The truth is, diving into royal duties after Father’s death gave me purpose when I was drowning in grief and responsibility. It was easier to focus on meetings and signing papers and making decisions for other people than to face the emptiness in the palace, the absence at the head of the table, the crown that would pass to me far sooner than any of us had expected.

“Look at this.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a glossy magazine. The cover shows some actress I vaguely recognize, her smile blindingly white against spray-tanned skin.

My mother flips through the pages, stopping at a dog-eared section. Even upside-down, I can make out the headline: “Hollywood’s Most Notorious Bachelor Pops the Question!” accompanied by a photo of Ricardo Ruiz — whose action movies I secretly enjoy — looking besotted next to a woman at some event. I have a sinking feeling in my stomach that has nothing to do with the lamb.

“Did you see this?” She pushes the magazine across the table toward me.

I glance down at the article, feigning minimal interest while scanning the text. Ricardo Ruiz, Hollywood’s perennial playboy,finally proposed at forty-two, after years of high-profile relationships that never lasted longer than his movie shoots. The article describes his bride-to-be as “the perfect match” and “his equal in every way.”

“I wasn’t aware you followed celebrity gossip,” I say, pushing the magazine back without picking it up.

“I don’t, typically.” She taps one manicured finger against a paragraph near the bottom of the page. “But this particular story caught my attention. A Hollywood matchmaker brought the two of them together.”

“A matchmaker? Really? And I suppose you would like the same for me?” I set the magazine down, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. “Next you’ll be telling me you’ve consulted a fortune teller about my romantic future.”

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