Page 67 of Matched with the Grumpy Secret Prince

Mia looks up from behind the counter, her sleeves rolled up as she arranges a bouquet. “You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”

“Try a month,” I mutter, dropping my planner onto the counter.

She whistles low. “Yikes. That bad?”

“Worse.” I pull out my checklist, flipping through the pages. “The seating chart got messed up again, the catering team had an issue with their supplier this morning, and somehow, the string lights for the reception tent didn’t get delivered, which means I’m going to have to find a last-minute replacement.”

Mia winces. “Oof.”

I rub my temples, willing away the stress headache that’s been lingering for days. “It’s fine. I’ll figure it out. I always do.”

Mia studies me for a moment before leaning against the counter. “And how are you? You know, outside of wedding planner mode.”

I force a small smile. “I’m fine.” I do my best to avoid eye contact with my sister as I speak.

Mia doesn’t buy it.

“You know, you can stop pretending.” She gestures vaguely at me. “I know you. And I know this—” she waves a hand over my frazzled, sleep-deprived self, “—isn’t just about wedding stress.”

I open my mouth to protest, but she cuts me off.

“It’s been a month, Sophie.” Her voice is gentler now. “Have you really made peace with it?”

I grip the edge of the counter, my nails pressing into the wood. “I don’t have a choice.”

Mia watches me carefully. “Maybe not. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.”

I exhale slowly, my shoulders slumping because she’s right.

I’ve spent weeks convincing myself that Graham was just a moment of weakness—that he wasn’t meant to stay, that maybe I had misread everything. But it doesn’t change the ache that settles in my chest whenever I think about him.

And oh, do I think about him.

It happens in the smallest, stupidest ways. When I see someone working with wood, I remember how effortlessly he did it. When I hear the low hum of a man’s voice and, for a split second, my heart tricks me into thinking it’s him. When I walk into the flower shop, I remember how he kissed me right here, in this very space, as if he couldn’t help himself.

But Graham has been gone for a month.

A whole month without a call. Without a message. Without a single explanation.

I can’t keep holding on to something that was probably never meant to last.

I square my shoulders, forcing my voice to be steady. “It doesn’t matter anymore.” I feel a tightness in my chest as the words come out.

Mia sighs but doesn’t push. Instead, she pats my arm. “Well, at least let me help with the flowers for the reception. You don’t have to do everything alone, you know.”

I offer a grateful smile, choosing to focus on what’s ahead.

Because in two days, there’s going to be a wedding.

And that’s all that matters now.

“Mia, please tell me you’re joking.”

Mia places a hand on my arm, her expression warm and understanding. "I’m sure it’ll be fine, Sophie."

I blink slowly, trying to process what I’m seeing. The rehearsal venue is supposed to be set with soft pink peonies and white garden roses—elegant, timeless, and romantic. Instead, I’m staring at a sea of fiery reds and oranges, colors so bold they look like they belong in a fall harvest festival, not at the wedding of the year.

My stomach drops, a cold wave of panic washing over me. "Mia," I say, my voice trembling despite my best effort to stay calm. "I sent the wrong order to your supplier."

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