6 - The Matchmaking
Morning light fractured across the marble countertop like liquid gold.
Sarah Blackwood stood motionless before the window, her reflection suspended between city glass and sky.
Her phone trembled slightly in her hand — a small betrayal from fingers that had signed billion-dollar deals without flinching.
Her manicured nails drummed a soft, anxious rhythm against the cold marble, the sound swallowed by the silence of her penthouse. Outside, the skyline stretched — tall, merciless, glittering. It always reminded her of Ethan: sharp edges, unreachable heights.
She hesitated a heartbeat longer before pressing Emma Landon's name.
Each ring pulsed like a countdown — one to decision, another to confrontation.
"Hello?" Emma's voice emerged — groggy, warm with the weight of sleep and something softer.
Sarah exhaled. "Meet me at the café downtown," she said, skipping pretense. "The one with those almond croissants you love."
A pause. The sound of hesitation breathed through the line. "Why? What's going on?"
Sarah pinched the bridge of her nose, eyes closing briefly. "Just come, Emma. It's important."
There was a beat of silence, heavy as a held breath. Then — "Fine. Twenty minutes. I need to get dressed."
The call ended. The city kept moving. And Sarah, for a fleeting moment, wished she could too — without the gravity of her own plans pulling her under.
The Primrose Café hummed with morning warmth — steam rising in elegant spirals, laughter blending with the hiss of espresso machines. The air was alive with the scent of butter, sugar, and roasted coffee — a memory of simpler days stitched into the present.
Sarah sat tucked away in the corner, half-hidden behind a lush fern. Her posture was immaculate, but her eyes betrayed her — rimmed faintly red, sleepless. She stirred her coffee though she hadn't added sugar, her reflection wavering in the dark liquid.
When Emma arrived, it was like the café exhaled. Her entrance carried the effortless grace of old money — oversized sunglasses, silk scarf, perfume faint and familiar. She paused, scanning the room until her gaze caught Sarah's.
A flicker of concern, then composure. Always composure.
Emma slid into the seat opposite her friend, removing her glasses. "What now, Sarah? You sound urgent."
She waved for the waitress without waiting for an answer. "Cappuccino. Extra shot," she added before turning back to Sarah.
Sarah's fingers worried the rim of her cup, the thin chain around her neck, the smooth strand of dark hair she'd already adjusted three times. Beneath the veneer of control, she looked—human. Almost fragile.
Her voice came soft, deliberate. "Emma, you know I've been looking for a wife for Ethan."
Emma blinked, already bracing for whatever impossible plan would follow.
"After seeing Scarlett," Sarah continued, "I felt she would be perfect for him. Can we get Ethan and Scarlett married?"
The sugar spoon in Emma's hand froze midair. Her brow arched slowly, disbelief coloring her tone. "Excuse me?"
Sarah met her gaze. "Yes. You heard me right."
Emma's laugh was short, incredulous. "You're serious?"
"Dead serious."
Emma leaned back, shaking her head. "We saw them that day, Sarah. Scarlett hates Ethan. And Ethan—he wouldn't notice Scarlett even if she set herself on fire in front of him."
Sarah's lips twitched, almost a smile. "Yes, I know. But he will."
Emma studied her, eyes narrowing. "Men like Ethan don't fall for women who ignore them. They want to be adored, obeyed. Scarlett would rather walk barefoot through glass."
"That's exactly why she's perfect," Sarah murmured. The conviction in her voice was quiet but unshakable. "Ethan's entire life has been applause. He needs someone who doesn't flinch before him. Someone who sees what he hides."
Emma exhaled, a sound between a sigh and a laugh. "You think Scarlett will swoop in and save his soul?"
"Yes," Sarah said simply, almost tenderly. "Scarlett could be the person who shows him he still has one."
Silence expanded between them, filled only by the hum of the café and the delicate clatter of spoons. Emma's cappuccino arrived, foam soft and perfect. She didn't touch it.
"And what about them?" she asked at last. "You think they'll go for this?"
Sarah's eyes sharpened. "Ethan—he'll resist. But I know how to make him listen. And Scarlett... she respects you, Emma. You can talk to her."
Emma's mouth curved into a humorless smile. "You're not hearing me. Scarlett doesn't get talked into things. She decides. And Ethan— you expect her to marry him?"
Sarah's answer was quiet but loaded. "Not a favor. A future. For both families. For both of them. They just haven't seen it yet."
Emma looked down into her cup. The foam heart had dissolved. "I'll talk to her," she said finally. "But don't get your hopes up."
"I know," Sarah murmured. "But if it happens—if this marriage happens—I'll be the happiest one alive."
For a moment, something raw flashed in Sarah's eyes — not ambition, but longing. Emma saw it, and though she didn't fully understand it, she nodded. Perhaps, deep down, she wanted to believe in it too.
The Blackwood estate loomed beneath a gray sky, its stone fa?ade glistening after the morning rain. Inside, silence pooled thick as velvet.
In the study, the air smelled of leather, oak, and something colder — restraint. Ethan Blackwood sat behind his late father's desk, the morning light cutting his face into planes of shadow and light. Every line of him spoke of control — from his tailored charcoal suit to the precise set of his jaw.
Sarah sat across from him, posture impeccable. Her hands rested over her clutch — still, but her pulse betrayed her in the faint tremor at her throat. William Blackwood, cane in hand, observed from the side, a ghost of the family's authority.
"Ethan," Sarah began softly, "this marriage isn't just for you. It's for the family. For legacy. How long do you plan to be alone? She's a nice girl."
Ethan's laugh was low, humorless. "Legacy is a convenient word for control." He leaned back, eyes unreadable. "I've taken Blackwood Enterprises to heights neither of you imagined. I don't need a wife to keep it standing."
Sarah's voice didn't rise, but it pressed forward, steady as wind against glass. "You're dismissing strategy as sentiment."
He met her gaze, cold and deliberate. "I'm dismissing manipulation as tradition."
William stirred, the tip of his cane tapping softly against the rug. "You don't marry for alliances, boy," he said, voice gravelly. "You marry for love. That hasn't changed."
Ethan stood, buttoning his jacket with quiet finality. "Then perhaps the institution needs to."
Sarah rose too, crossing the space between them. Her hand hovered near his arm, not touching. "She's kind, Ethan," she whispered. "Smart. Real. She could make you feel something again. Don't you ever get tired of being alone?"
For a moment, his mask faltered. His gaze dropped — not to her, but somewhere inward, to a place he kept locked. A flicker of ache, swift and dangerous. Then it was gone, buried beneath iron.
"No, Mom," he said, voice low. "I don't want to let anyone in. Not for a fairytale. Not for you."
Sarah's hand fell back to her side. The room felt colder. William turned away, the sound of his cane fading into silence.
And Ethan, framed against the window, looked every inch the man the world adored — powerful, untouchable, and desperately alone.
The Landon home was a living contrast to the Blackwoods' austerity — warm light, laughter's ghosts lingering in corners, a clutter of love and life. Rain streaked the windows, tapping a restless rhythm.
Scarlett sat curled on the couch, a throw pillow clutched to her chest like armor. Her hair, loose and unruly, caught the gray light in copper threads.
Emma paced before her, heels clicking sharp across the rug. Mathew sat by the window, watching the rain as though it held answers.
"You're asking me to marry a stranger?" Scarlett's voice trembled between disbelief and fury. "This is insane."
Emma stopped pacing, the plea breaking through her composure. "Sweetheart, we're only telling you this because we think—it could be good. For you. For both families."
Scarlett stood, pacing now herself, her pulse thundering in her ears. "So I'm a bargaining chip?"
Mathew rose then, quiet strength in his calm. He placed a hand on her shoulder. "If she doesn't want this, we won't force her."
Scarlett's breath caught. The storm inside her stilled for a moment, gratitude flickering behind her defiance.
Emma turned to her husband, eyes glassy. "Mathew, please—this is for her good."
He shook his head gently. "Not at the cost of her happiness."
Silence fell again, heavy as rain. Scarlett moved to the window, her reflection merging with the city outside — fragile, luminous, uncertain.
The rain's rhythm softened into a whisper, and she closed her eyes. Between her parents' love and expectations, she felt the world narrowing, pressing her toward a future she hadn't chosen.
Emma's voice, softer now, trembled. "Scarlett... just meet him. That's all we're asking."
Scarlett didn't turn. "I already have," she murmured. "And he didn't see me."
The room fell still. Mathew lowered his gaze. Emma's composure cracked — a silent flinch of regret.
Outside, the rain began again — steady, unending, like fate itself.
And Scarlett, framed by its gray light, stood unmoving — a silhouette of resistance and quiet sorrow, unaware that somewhere across the city, Ethan Blackwood was staring into the same storm.