Page 59 of His Royal Matchmaker

I take a sip of wine. “It’s not that easy.”

“Why not? Your business is doing well. You don’t need this job. And yeah, it will lead to more exposure for you, but if that exposure doesn’t accurately represent you, it’s probably not a good thing.”

She’s right, but I can’t explain the real reason I took it: that after leaving Hugo behind, I needed something new and different to throw myself into. That the thought of going back to how my life was before feels like rubbing salt in my own wound. I’m in my same apartment, in the same city, but at least I have the distraction of a new job.

“I signed a contract,” I say instead. “And maybe I can make it better from the inside out.”

Nova makes a sound that’s half laugh, half sigh. “Emily Neale, always trying to fix things. You have the best heart, but some things can’t be fixed, you know.”

I wonder if she’s talking about the show or about me.

“Anyway,” she continues, “drinks tonight. My treat. You can tell me all about the beautiful-but-doomed contestants, and I’ll tell you about the actor who threw a smoothie at his manager in my office yesterday.”

“Sounds wonderfully distracting,” I tell her. “Our usual spot? Seven?”

“See you there. Gotta run. I have another call coming in. Love ya.”

After we hang up, I stare out my window at the palm trees swaying in the breeze. Los Angeles continues its eternal summer, indifferent to my problems. Meanwhile I sit here, wondering what’s next in my life, wondering where I even wantto go. I promised myself a vacation and some dates with hot guys, but right now all I want to do is crawl under a rock and never come out.

My phone pings, and I open my email to find a message from the production company with attachments of all the contestant profiles for me to review. Twenty-four beautiful strangers who think they might find love under hot lights and watchful cameras.

I should open the files. I should be professional. Instead, I find myself typing “Prince Hugo Bastien” into my search bar. It’s a bad habit I can’t seem to break.

The results are the same as always. News about his royal duties. Photos of him at official functions, looking handsome and serious in his tailored suits. A recent article about speculation on who he might marry now that he’s thirty-one and the country is eager for a future queen.

No photos of us together, of course. No one knew about his matchmaker, thanks to the NDAs the palace had all the women and their teams sign.

My chest aches with an uncomfortable heat that I recognize as heartbreak.

Closing the browser, I open the contestant files instead. Maybe I can’t fix my own love life. Maybe I can’t even fix this shallow TV show. But I can at least try to do my job with some integrity.

But the words blur in front of my eyes, and guilt gnaws at my conscience. These people have dreams and fears and hopes, just like my regular clients. Just like me. They deserve better than to be set up for failure in the name of entertainment.

My phone rings again. It’s Elliot.

“Change of plans,” he says without greeting. “The network wants to move up filming. We start in two weeks, not three. I need your contestant rankings tomorrow.”

“But I’ve barely looked at their profiles,” I protest. “I need time to?—”

“Just rank them on chemistry potential and camera appeal,” he interrupts. “That’s all we really need from you right now.”

The call ends before I can argue. I stare at my phone, feeling my life crumble a little more around me.

This isn’t what I wanted. This isn’t what I built.

I think of Hugo, who stepped up and became the prince his country needed when his father died. He made the hard choice because it was right, even when it hurt.

Maybe it’s time for me to make a hard choice too.

I look at the contestant files again, but this time with new determination. If I’m going to do this, I’ll do itmyway. I’ll find the real potential matches in this group, and I’ll fight for them to have a chance.

Elliot and the network might not care about real love, but I do. It’s the one thing I’ve always believed in, even when my own heart is breaking.

Maybe especially then.

CHAPTER 25

EMILY

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