Page 9 of His Royal Matchmaker

“Exactly.” Her eyes meet mine, grateful. “Gerald and I had such love. Real love. Those years together were the greatest gift.” Her voice catches slightly. “I want that for Hugo. He deserves it. But he won’t even consider it. He talks only of work… That’s why I called you. They say you don’t just match people based on paper compatibility, but on… something deeper.”

I feel a flush of pride. “I believe everyone has a perfect match out there. My job is finding the person who makes their heart recognize something it’s been waiting for.”

“Yes!” Her eyes light up. “That’s exactly it. Gerald used to say he knew I was the one because his heart got quiet when I entered a room — like it had been noisy his whole life, and suddenly there was peace.”

My own heart squeezes at that. It’s exactly what I want for myself someday, too.

“I won’t lie to you.” The queen smiles ruefully. “He’ll try to scare you off. He’ll be cold. Dismissive.”

“I’ve dealt with reluctant clients before,” I assure her, though none quite like a prince.

“I’m sure you have.” She glances at an elegant clock on the mantel. “Oh! Your meeting with him is in ten minutes — if that’s all right? Two p.m. I thought it best to jump right in.”

My stomach flips. I was expecting at least a day to settle in and prepare, but who am I to say no to a queen? “Of course. No time like the present.”

She rings a small bell, and a young man in a dark suit appears. “Pierre will show you to Hugo’s office. And Emily? Thank you again.”

“You’re welcome, Your Majesty.” I nod my head, still having trouble believing the words “Your Majesty” are coming from my mouth. Not in my wildest dreams did I ever imagine making it this far.

The walk to Prince Hugo’s office feels like a march to battle. Pierre leads me through corridors lined with portraits and artifacts, twisting and turning so much that I’m not sure I could retrace the steps if I tried. Finally we arrive in a waiting area, which is decorated finely but doesn’t have the personal touches the queen’s sitting area did.

“His Highness will be with you shortly,” Pierre says, gesturing to a minimalist chair that looks more like a sculpture than furniture.

Two o’clock comes and goes. I scroll through the notes about Hugo on my tablet.

Two fifteen. I shift in the uncomfortable chair.

Two thirty. My initial nervousness is fading, replaced by irritation. By two forty, I’m checking emails on my phone, my foot tapping against the floor.

At ten minutes to three, a door opens and a woman wearing a dress suit steps out. “Ms. Neale? His Highness will see you now.”

I stand, smoothing my dress, and I know I really, really shouldn’t, but I can’t help it… “Our appointment was at two.”

She doesn’t so much as blink. “Yes. The prince is very busy.”

I bite back my response. Rule one of matchmaking: don’t start by antagonizing the client. Even if the client has left you sitting for fifty minutes in the world’s most uncomfortable chair.

The prince’s office is as impersonal as the waiting area. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a stunning view of the mountains, but otherwise, the space feels unlived-in. One wall holds a large abstract painting in shades of — surprise — gray. The desk is glass and metal, impossibly clear except for the computer and a small plant. No photos. No personal items. Not even a coffee mug.

Prince Hugo stands from behind the desk as I enter, and there’s a moment where I almost trip over my feet. Of course, I knew how tall he is, how handsome he is, but being in his presence is something different entirely. His dark hair is cut short and neat, his jaw sharp enough to cut glass. His eyes, a deep blue like the sea before a storm, appraise me with cool detachment that matches his charcoal-gray suit.

He doesn’t look like the party boy from the old tabloids. He looks like he’s never had fun in his life.

“Your Highness.” I do a quick curtsy, remembering the proper protocol for meeting royalty — which I was briefed on in an email from the palace before arriving here.

“Ms. Neale.” He waves his hand at one of the two seats in front of the desk. “Please sit.”

I do, placing my bag on the floor. “Thank you for meeting with me, Your Highness. Though I was under the impression our appointment was at two o’clock.”

A flash of something — irritation? amusement? — crosses his face so quickly I almost miss it. “My apologies. An urgent matter with the finance minister required my attention.”

It sounds rehearsed, like an excuse he’s used many times. I decide to let it go. For now.

“I understand. Shall we make the most of our remaining time?” I pull out and open my tablet. “I’d like to start by understanding what you’re looking for in a partner.”

He sits back, his posture perfect, hands folded on the desk. “I assume my mother has briefed you on the situation.”

“She shared some background, yes. But I’d like to hear from you directly.”

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