38. Grayson
38
GRAYSON
I f chaos had a scent, today it smells like over-steeped Earl Grey and Chanel No. 5. I’m standing in the VIP lounge at Perfectly Matched HQ , and I swear the temperature has risen five degrees from sheer presence alone. The cause of the shift? Celeste Diamond, matchmaking’s equivalent of a glitter bomb with a private jet.
She sits sprawled across the velvet fainting couch like she invented lounging. Her vintage pink suit sparkles faintly under the art-deco chandelier, and a tiny white Pomeranian pokes its head out of her Hermès tote bag with an expression of world-weary judgment. The dog is wearing a diamond collar. It blinks at me like I should be fetching it tea.
Celeste removes her sunglasses slowly, like a Bond villain mid-monologue, and peers at me through cat-lined eyes.
“Well, if it isn’t my Golden Boy,” she says, voice honeyed with mischief and something vaguely threatening. “Tell me, darling, do you always look this serious? Or is it just for me?”
Across the room, Olivia’s tablet nearly short-circuits from stress.
I smile tightly. “Ms. Diamond. Welcome to Perfectly Matched .”
“I prefer Celeste. Or Your Majesty. Depending on the day.”
I glance toward Olivia. Her expression is polite, professional, and full of murderous suspicion.
Celeste lifts her teacup, bone china, hand-painted roses, then sniffs it once before handing it off to no one in particular. “Do you know, I once turned down an engagement on the tarmac of a private airfield in Morocco. The ring was too small. I said, if it can’t be seen from space, I’m not interested.”
“Good to know,” I reply, already regretting every decision that led me to this couch.
The lounge was redecorated last month, but it’s somehow not enough. Soft champagne-toned walls, custom seating, curated bookshelves with leather-bound Austen and Auden, it’s all too subtle for Celeste, who radiates a frequency somewhere between “Broadway matinee” and “Russian oligarch’s second ex-wife.”
“I’m not filling out that dreadful online profile,” she declares, patting the Pomeranian’s tufted head. “The font offends me.”
“You do understand our process is algorithm-based,” Olivia says from the corner, arms crossed like she’s trying not to combust. “Compatibility tiers. Personality diagnostics. A proprietary matching logic that…”
“Oh, darling,” Celeste cuts in with a wave of her jeweled fingers. “I don’t do logic. I do chemistry. And good calves.”
I cough to hide my laugh.
“I’ll need face-to-face dates. Seven, to be exact. Like Snow White’s dwarves. One per vice.”
“There’s no….” Olivia starts, but I cut her off gently.
“Celeste,” I say, easing into my most diplomatic voice, “we pride ourselves on customization for elite clients. But we still require some structure.”
She tilts her head, considering. “Fine. I’ll fill out your little survey. But only if I can use my own pen. It’s a Montblanc. Touched by Elton John. I refuse to use anything that hasn’t met a knight.”
I nod solemnly. “Of course.”
***
Thirty minutes later, I am sitting beside her while she answers the intake questions aloud like she’s narrating a scandalous memoir. Ideal partner trait? “Confidence. Or terrible taste in women. Means I’ll be unforgettable.” Do you prefer pets? “I am the pet.” Favorite date activity? “Escaping a minor international incident.” Turnoffs? “Humility. And cargo shorts.”
Olivia whispers near my ear, “She’s either brilliant or sent by PulseMatch .”
“She’s not a mole,” I murmur. “She’s chaos wrapped in Versace.”
“Same thing.”
After the questionnaire, Celeste rises in a flurry of rose silk and rings. “Now. Where’s my first victim?”
“We’re curating matches now,” I say.
“With Luca?”
“No. With his chiropractor. Said he had ‘healing hands and a flirtatious aura.’”
“I’m very married,” I say, amused. “To your algorithm.”
“Well then,” she says, dramatically draping herself across the chair, “let’s make headlines, shall we?”
She struts toward the elevator, dog in tow, leaving behind a scent trail of perfume and crisis. As soon as the door closes, Olivia drops onto the fainting couch with an actual groan.
“I swear to God, if she asks me one more time whether our algorithm has ever matched a royal with a professional mime, I’m going to scream into my blazer.”
“You handled it well,” I say, pouring her a splash of ginger-infused sparkling water.
“She called you Golden Boy six times.”
“That’s honestly not the worst nickname I’ve had today.”
Olivia takes the glass, exhales sharply, and leans back. “If she’s not a mole, she’s a walking distraction. The media’s still watching. PulseMatch is still circling. And now we’re hand-feeding foie gras to a matchmaking performance artist.”
***
Earlier that week, Olivia had tried to give her a standard client onboarding orientation. It lasted seven minutes.
“Celeste,” Olivia said patiently, “your initial profile lists conflicting preferences, European diplomacy and Midwestern charm?”
“I want a man who can fence and bake.”
“That’s… very specific.”
Celeste sipped her tea. “I’ve found that vagueness leads to cargo pants. I do not do cargo pants.”
Olivia paused, recalibrating. “Okay. Let’s talk about emotional compatibility. Would you consider a man who isn’t classically wealthy, but is…”
“Spiritually rich?” Celeste interrupted. “No.”
Olivia stared. “That wasn’t what I was going to say.”
Celeste leaned in with a wink. “It’s okay, darling. I’ve met too many poets. I want someone who owns a vineyard. Or at least a racehorse.”
“I need a drink,” Olivia muttered.
“It’s eleven A.M.”
“Exactly.”
***
Three Days Later, the photo of Celeste on her first Perfectly Matched date is now trending on every gossip site in New York. She’s seated at a restaurant, sipping champagne, one hand in the air mid-toast, while her date, an opera-singing Australian yachtsman named Luca, feeds her oysters. The caption reads: Heiress in Heat? Celeste Diamond Spotted on Mystery Date—Sources Say She Was ‘Auditioning a Husband.
Margot comes into my office holding her phone, face flushed from laughing.
“She said what?”
“That she could smell virility like truffle oil,” I mutter.
Margot wheezes.
“She also asked if our prenups come with footnotes.”
“Grayson. Please. I’m pregnant. I cannot handle this woman.”
“She asked if you were having twins.”
Margot stares at me, horrified. “Why?”
“She said ‘You look like someone who overachieves even in the womb.’”
Margot sinks into the chair and cackles. “If she ever turns out to be a PulseMatch spy, I’ll buy her dinner. And a tiara.”
***
Celeste’s first date doesn’t end with scandal. It ends with a helicopter.
Olivia storms into my office the next morning holding her iPad like it’s radioactive. “She landed a helicopter on the East River pier.”
“She what?”
“She chartered a helicopter, left her date at dessert, and flew to a ‘spiritual advisor’ in Montauk because she said, and I quote, ‘the oysters spoke to her soul, and not in a good way.”
I blink.
Margot walks by the doorway just in time to hear this and backs up with a laugh. “Please tell me we’re not liable.”
“She signed the waiver,” Olivia says grimly. “In gold ink. With a heart over the ‘i.’”
***
At the end of the week, Celeste sends an embossed envelope to the office. Inside: a single card: Golden Boy, Luca had great shoulders but talked about crypto. I faked food poisoning. Thank you for the thrill. – C . P.S. If you ever need a scandal to redirect the press again, just leak my next date. I guarantee it’ll go viral.
And I swear, for just a second, Olivia actually smiles. And I, God help me, might actually look forward to her next date.