Page 58 of His Royal Matchmaker

Elliot laughs like I’ve told a joke. “Emily, Emily, Emily. The point is to get viewers. Conflict gets viewers. Happy couples are boring to watch.”

I bite the inside of my cheek and don’t say anything. When Elliot and I first got on a call about the show, it sounded different.“We want a real matchmaker,”he had said over the line.“Someone with credentials to give the show legitimacy. Someone who knows love when they see it.”

I took the job because it seemed like a good distraction. After what happened with Hugo, I needed something new to focus on. Something that wasn’t sitting in my apartment remembering the way his accent made ordinary words sound like poetry, or how his lips felt when they pressed against mine.

I thought I would be doing good on this show, not only helping contestants find love but giving viewers tips on it as well. But so far I’m getting the impression that the producers only want me here to stand next to the infinity pool, introduce people, and lend my name’s reputation.

“Maybe we should do compatibility assessments,” I suggest, pulling myself back to the present. “I have methods that have worked for my clients for years. We could actually help these people find real connections.”

An assistant producer, a woman with sharp bangs and sharper eyes, snorts. “That’s cute, but we need people who look good fighting and kissing. Preferably both in the same episode.”

I feel my cheeks grow warm. This isn’t me. This isn’t what I do.

For years, I’ve built my reputation on thoughtfulness and care. I interview my clients for hours. I learn their histories, their hopes, their secret fears about love. I introduce people who might actually build lives together.

Biting my lip, I look away. Usually, I would stand my ground, but since arriving back in LA, I feel like a different person. I’m constantly on edge, feeling like the slightest thing could tip me into a breakdown. Hugo’s always on my mind, like a movie playing on repeat. Did I do the right thing by leaving?

Yes. Of course I did. Why am I even still asking myself that?

The meeting drags on for another forty minutes. By the time we break, my notepad is filled with more doodles than notes, and my patience has worn thin.

Elliot catches me as I’m gathering my things. He leans against the doorframe, blocking my exit with his body. “Walk with me to the parking lot? I want to chat.”

I nod, although what I really want is to go home, change into sweatpants, and call Nova to complain.

“You seem hesitant about our approach,” he says as we walk through the hallway. The walls are lined with posters from thenetwork’s other reality shows — shows filled with people crying, people kissing, people throwing drinks at each other. The kind of stuff that brings in money but has no heart.

“I just think we’re missing an opportunity,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “What if we did something revolutionary and actually matched people who might fall in love? Real love, not just for-the-cameras love.”

Elliot stops walking and turns to face me. “Emily, you’re here because you have a reputation. Your name gives us credibility. But this is television, not your boutique matchmaking service. We need drama and tears and make-out sessions in the hot tub.”

My stomach clenches. So, my suspicions were correct. I’m a prop, not a professional.

“Give me a chance,” I press. “Let me do one round of actual compatibility assessments. If it doesn’t work for television, we’ll do it your way.”

For a moment, I think I see consideration in his eyes. Then he shakes his head.

“The network approved this format. The contestants signed up for this format. We start filming in three weeks.” He pats my shoulder like I’m a child who doesn’t understand basic concepts. “Trust me, this is how these shows work.”

I walk across the parking lot alone, the bright sun beating down in a way that should feel cheerful but just makes my skin prickle. The drive home is a blur of traffic and radio songs that all seem to be about lost love. At a red light, my mind wanders to Hugo again.

Prince Hugo… the man who looked at me like I was a puzzle he wanted to solve. The man who fought me, pushed me away, made my job difficult — then kissed me in an act that felt akin to my heart being torn out.

The car behind me honks, and I jerk only to find the light has turned green. Sighing, I press the gas pedal and push the memory away.

My apartment feels too empty when I get home. It’s a nice place — the kind of place a successful businesswoman should have. Modern furniture, tasteful art, a view of a slice of the city from the balcony. But lately, it feels like nothing more than a hotel room. Just a place I stay, not a place I live.

Kicking off my heels, I pour myself a glass of wine. It’s only four p.m., but today feels like a wine-before-dinner kind of day. I curl up on my couch and call Nova, who answers on the second ring.

“There’s my favorite matchmaker. How’s the glamorous world of television?”

“It’s awful,” I say, not bothering to hide my frustration. “They don’t care about actually matching people. They just want drama and ratings.”

“I’m sorry, babe.” I can hear the sound of her office in the background — phones ringing, people talking. “Did you really expect it to be like your regular job?”

“I expected it to at least pretend to care about the premise,” I sigh. “They’re going to pair people up just to watch them fight. It feels wrong.”

“I’m sorry I hooked you up with it. Maybe you should quit.”

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