Matched with the Grumpy Secret Prince (Matched for Love)

1. Sophie

SOPHIE

A nother satisfied client.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Huntington. It’s been a pleasure working with you.” I extend my hand for a shake as he takes it.

“I really love the way the decoration mirrors everything I hoped for,” he says. “My wife is absolutely in love with your work. You’re a great event planner.”

I smile, pleased at the compliment, and thank him again for the project.

“It’s been great working with you too. You came highly recommended, and I’m glad you did not fall through. I’ll see you around.”

That said, he walks away from me, finally giving me the room to sit on the leather chair for a bit. I let out a breath of relief. I watch the door close as he leaves before I start packing up. This is one of the main reasons I love to meet with clients personally after working together. It feels good to get reviews on my own.

Finally grabbing the last of my stuff, I strut out of the complex where my office is. There isn’t much work to do today because it’s just the start of the new year, and I have only been in to meet with Mr. Huntington. My staff has yet to resume work for the year, so work is still slow, and I’m ensuring that all our present clients are satisfied before bringing in new clientele for the year.

The only sound I can hear is the clicking of my red heels on the white marble floors as I walk over to where my Mercedes is parked. I get in and head to my penthouse in Manhattan.

Driving through the area, I remember how I felt the first time I arrived. Seven years ago, I was so tired of Bardstown; it felt too familiar. I was starting to feel too comfortable back there, and I knew I was badly in need of a fresh start somewhere new where I could push myself, so I took the risk of leaving. I left my sister Mia and brother Sam. Looking back, I didn’t just leave because I wanted to make something of myself. It was more about me leaving my comfort zone, Bardstown, and proving to my siblings and even myself that I could pursue my dreams here in Manhattan on my own. Mia has visited me a few times and keeps me in the loop.

The not-so-great part, however, was missing Sam’s wedding. I was working with a client who had the time to fly me and my team out of town, and I couldn’t even make it if I tried. That’s the moment I felt like I wronged my brother.

Seven years of hard work and dedication have led to a successful event-planning business.

By the time I get to my penthouse, I’m tired and want to be cuddled up in bed. I make it into my home and breathe in the familiar scent of vanilla. Coming home to my penthouse on days like this makes the hustle and bustle all worth it. I’ve just set my Louis Vuitton bag on the kitchen counter, taken off my shoes and I’m about to grab myself a glass of water to drink when my phone starts vibrating inside it. I turn back around and fiddle through my bag before finally finding it.

Ethan.

I answer the phone with a bright smile. “Hey, you!”

I’m surprised my cousin is calling. It's not that we don’t talk regularly—my family is pretty close-knit, even with extended family members—but I can feel something is up with Ethan.

He’s been surprising me and the rest of the family a lot lately. I was even more surprised when he moved to Bardstown a couple of months ago and started dating the love of his life. Mia never leaves anything out when she visits, even when we talk on the phone.

“Is that how you speak to the latest groom?” he asks, chuckling, and I gasp.

“Groom?! Ethan, oh my goodness!” I scream over the phone as he laughs. “I didn’t know how much I needed this great news until now—another family wedding! Congratulations!”

He laughs, the deep, warm sound of someone truly happy. “Yeah, Soph. I popped the question to Riley last week, and she said yes.”

I lean against the counter, already smiling. “Oh my gosh, Ethan, this is amazing! I mean, you have really stepped up. When’s the big day?”

“In three months,” he replies, his excitement tinged with nervousness. “It’ll be in Bardstown, and I want you there. I need you there.”

“You don’t even have to ask,” I say without hesitation. “Of course, I’ll be there. There’s no way I’d miss your wedding. It would be a great chance to catch up with family again, especially since I haven’t seen my brother in forever.”

“That’s true. He’s still on his honeymoon, but Mia was in Manhattan about a month ago, right?”

“Yes, and she nearly drove me crazy. But I loved having her around,” I say in between laughs.

“I can imagine how that went, but seeing as you grew up together, it wasn’t your first rodeo. She nearly drove me mad when I first moved to Bardstown. She and Aunt Dotty. Anyway, I can’t wait for you to meet Riley properly. You’re going to love her, Soph. She’s everything I didn’t know I needed.”

I smile softly, his words tugging at something deep inside me. It’s been so long since I heard Ethan sound this grounded, this sure of himself. He’s always been the wanderer, the one chasing excitement and dodging responsibility. And now, here he is, talking about building a life with someone.

“I’m so happy for you, Ethan,” I say, my voice sincere.

“Thanks, Soph,” he says, his tone softening. “But enough about me—how are you? Still enjoying the city without me?”

I withhold a groan. Not him reminding me about how he just got up and left New York again. I mean, I don’t blame Ethan for what he did. My cousin has been through a lot at the hands of his parents, and moving to Bardstown has done him a lot of good.

I laugh lightly, glancing around my penthouse. “Something like that. Business is great. I’ve got all the high-profile clients and events in the swankiest venues. Everything I’ve worked for.”

“Hmm,” he hums knowingly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, raising an eyebrow even though he can’t see me.

“Nothing,” he says, but there’s a teasing edge to his voice. “Just wondering if you’re actually happy or just ticking off boxes.”

I stiffen slightly, his words cutting closer to the truth than I’d like to admit. “Of course I’m happy,” I say quickly, though even to my ears, it sounds defensive.

He’s quiet for a beat before he says, “You know, I felt the same way when I was in New York. I had the job, the apartment, the parties. But none of it ever felt… right.”

I frown, sinking onto one of the kitchen stools. “That’s why you left?”

“Yeah,” he admits. “The pressure from Mom and Dad, the constant grind—it was too much. So, I came back to Bardstown. Took a breath. Figured out what I really wanted. And now, here I am, getting married to the love of my life.”

His words hang in the air, and I can’t help but feel the weight of them. I’ve achieved everything I set out to do when I left Bardstown. I built a life on my terms, one that’s polished and successful. But why does it still feel like something’s missing?

“You’ll figure it out, Soph,” Ethan says gently as if he can read my thoughts. “You always do.”

“I hope so,” I reply softly, pushing myself to stand and finally pour myself a glass of water since I’m now parched. I get a glass from the shelf and open my fridge, reaching for my lemon-infused water jug before pouring myself some and taking a few sips as Ethan speaks.

“You will,” he says firmly. “And in the meantime, you’ll come home for the wedding, we’ll have the best time, and everything else can wait.”

I smile faintly, the knot in my chest loosening. “Okay,” I say. “I’ll be there.”

“Good. And Soph? It’ll be great to have you back. We’ve all missed you.”

The call ends, but his words linger. We’ve all missed you.

I take another long sip of my water, staring out at the Manhattan skyline. Seven years ago, I left Bardstown to start over, to build something better for myself. I thought if I worked hard enough, I could create the life I always dreamed of. And I did.

But now, I can’t shake the feeling that the life I left behind might hold the pieces I didn’t realize I was missing.

The call with Ethan leaves a warm buzz in my chest. Another family wedding. It feels like it’s been a while since I’ve had something like this to look forward to—something that isn’t tied to a client or a deadline. I’m so used to seeing strangers get proposed to and planning the wedding of their dreams, but this one hits home, and I’m so excited about it.

As I set my phone down on the counter and rinse out my glass before placing it back on the shelf, I can’t help but smile. Ethan is getting married. I still can’t quite believe it. The same Ethan who used to sneak frogs into the house and make ridiculous bets about who could climb the tallest tree is settling down.

How time flies. With a sigh, I head to my bedroom and peel off my fitted blazer and pencil skirt, tossing them onto the chair in the corner. My feet ache from a long day of running around in heels, and all I want right now is to wash off the day’s tension.

I step into the bathroom, the tiles cool beneath my feet, and turn on the shower. Steam quickly fills the space as I step under the warm spray, letting the water run over me. I close my eyes, the noise of the city fading away as I soak in the quiet.

Ethan’s words replay in my mind: You’ll figure it out, Soph. You always do.

I want to believe him. I really do. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned in New York, it’s that nothing comes without a fight.

After a few more minutes, I step out of the shower and wrap myself in a plush towel, the cool air biting my damp skin. At this point, my skincare routine is practically muscle memory: cleanser, toner, serum, moisturizer. Each step feels like a small act of self-care, something I can control when everything else feels uncertain.

I walk back into the bedroom, grab my silk robe, and tie it loosely around my waist. My laptop waits for me on the desk, the screen glowing with my calendar for the week.

I sink into the chair, scrolling through emails while dabbing under my eyes with the last of my serum. The rhythm of work is comforting and predictable. It’s what I’m good at, what I’ve built my life around.

But for the first time in a long time, it feels… hollow.

I shake off the thought, forcing my attention back to the screen. A new notification pops up—a reminder to finalize the itinerary for the Preston event next week. I type a quick note to myself, adding it to the list of things I need to wrap up before the weekend.

I glance at my planner, the pages neatly filled with color-coded appointments and tasks. My life is a perfectly curated machine, running smoothly on deadlines and ambition.

But as I lean back in my chair, staring out at the city lights twinkling beyond my window, I can’t help but feel like there’s something I’ve forgotten how to plan for. Something I didn’t even realize I’d been missing.

M ornings in Manhattan always start behind the wheel of my silver Mercedes.

Sliding into the plush leather seat, I take a moment to adjust the cuffs of my tailored white blouse beneath my fitted beige blazer. My gold bracelet glints in the morning sun as I grip the steering wheel. A glance in the mirror confirms what I already know—my sleek bob is perfectly in place, my makeup polished but natural: nude lipstick, a hint of blush, and just enough mascara to highlight my dark brown eyes.

The city is alive as always, with cars honking and pedestrians darting across crosswalks like their lives depend on it. As I pull into traffic, my phone is already connected to the car’s Bluetooth, and the familiar voice of my assistant, Claire, cuts through the hum of the city.

“Good morning, Sophie,” she chirps. “Your first meeting is with Mrs. Preston at The Astoria. She wants to discuss those centerpieces again.”

I suppress a groan. “Didn’t we finalize those last week?”

“She’s reconsidering,” Claire says. “Something about the hydrangeas not ‘feeling romantic enough.’”

“Of course,” I mutter, signaling as I turn onto Park Avenue. “Text her and let her know I’ll be there in twenty.”

“Got it. And Sophie? Don’t forget you have the walk-through at The Gallery afterward. It’s close by, like a fifteen-minute walk.”

“Perfect,” I say, my tone clipped but efficient. “Thanks, Claire.”

The call ends as I pull into The Astoria’s valet, handing my keys to the sharply dressed attendant. The hotel’s lobby is as grand as ever, with marble floors and crystal chandeliers. I stride through it with purpose, the click of my nude stilettos echoing against the polished stone.

Mrs. Preston is already seated in one of the private lounges, her manicured hands fluttering over a binder of floral arrangements. She’s every inch the demanding Upper East Side client—impeccably dressed in designer labels, her hair a sleek platinum blonde that probably took hours to perfect.

“Sophie!” she exclaims, standing to greet me. “Thank you for coming on such short notice. I know you’re busy, but this is so important.”

“Of course,” I reply smoothly, sitting across from her. “Let’s talk about the hydrangeas.”

The next hour is a blur of color swatches, fabric samples, and delicate diplomacy as I guide her back toward the original choice without making her feel like it was my idea all along. By the time we’re done, she’s beaming, and I’m already running through my mental checklist for the rest of the day.

The walk to The Gallery is quick—only a few blocks away—and for once, I don’t mind the fresh air. Manhattan has a way of pulling you in with its chaos, but moments like these, with the city stretching out around me, remind me why I fell in love with it in the first place.

I spot The Gallery’s entrance easily, the sleek modern facade standing out against the older brownstones nearby. Inside, my team is already waiting: Claire, with her ever-present clipboard; Jason, the head of catering; and Marla, my lead designer.

“Sophie,” Claire greets me, her tone brisk but respectful. “Everything’s ready for the walk-through.”

“Good,” I say, shedding my blazer and draping it over my arm. Beneath it, my blouse is tucked neatly into tailored high-waisted pants paired with a thin gold belt. The outfit is simple, professional, and just bold enough to remind everyone in the room who’s in charge.

By the time I step into my penthouse that night, exhaustion clings to me like a second skin. The elevator doors slide shut behind me, sealing off the chaos of Manhattan, but the silence that greets me feels too big, too empty.

I kick off my nude stilettos, letting them clatter onto the polished hardwood floor, and toss my blazer onto the cream-colored sectional in the center of the living room.

I’m halfway to pouring myself a glass of wine when my phone buzzes on the counter. I glance at the screen, my stomach tightening as I see the name Mrs. Whitmore .

I swipe to answer, forcing a polite tone. “Good evening, Mrs. Whitmore. Is everything all right?”

“Not exactly, Sophie,” she says, her voice sharp enough to make me wince. “I’ve had some time to review the plans for the gala, and I’m not happy with them. The floral arrangements don’t feel cohesive, and the seating chart is… uninspired.”

I blink, gripping the edge of the counter. “Mrs. Whitmore, we reviewed these plans together last week, and you approved them.”

“Yes, but now that I’ve had more time to think about it, I realize they don’t align with the vision I had in mind,” she replies coolly. “I’ll need something entirely different—and soon.”

My jaw tightens, but I keep my voice steady. “Of course. I’ll make the necessary adjustments and send you a revised proposal by tomorrow evening.”

“Tomorrow afternoon,” she corrects.

I clench my teeth. “Tomorrow afternoon,” I agree.

The call ends abruptly, leaving me staring at the blank screen.

I pour myself a generous glass of cabernet and take a long sip, letting the bold flavor wash over me. The exhaustion from the day feels heavier now, but there’s no time to dwell on it.

Setting the glass down, I grab my laptop from the coffee table and settle onto the sectional, pulling up the plans Mrs. Whitmore had so enthusiastically approved just days ago. The floral arrangements, the seating chart, the mood board—I had crafted every detail with care, and now I have to start from scratch.

Hours slip by, the city lights outside fading as the sky deepens into night. When I look up, the clock reads past midnight, and my wine glass is empty. My shoulders ache, and my eyes burn from staring at the screen, but the new plan is finally taking shape.

But as I save the file and close my laptop, I can’t shake the thought that keeps creeping in at moments like these. Everybody always wants their events to be perfect. I work day and night to maintain my reputation in the city, but we have clients like Mrs. Whitmore who just continually test my patience! I rub my temple as I let out a long sigh. I just want to be whisked out of here so badly. My body and brain are begging for a break.

I subconsciously reach for my phone, searching for my sister’s number, but then I stop as I scroll because I know calling Mia would not be a great idea. She has a way of seeing through me, and I am not ready for her to analyze me.

With another long sigh, I practically drag myself to my room and land on my bed, falling asleep almost immediately.