Page 3 of Matched with the Grumpy Secret Prince

Mornings 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 façade 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 nameMrs. 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.

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