Page 7 of The Matchmaker

Azar:Shift ends at 6:00 :-/. Will try to slip out early.

Me:Don’t leave me hanging! I need you there!

Azar:(…)

Me:And yes, I ended up getting myself the Moccamaster coffee maker, so you’ll have to think of something else for my birthday gift, which you should have started planning earlier considering it’s in four days.

The phone buzzes again. An incoming call this time. Did Ireallyguess his birthday gift for the third year in a row? But when I look at who’s calling, my smile fades. It’s not Azar.

It’s Basit Latif.

He’s facetiming me. Because of course he is. I consider sending it to voicemail, but he’ll only call again. And again. State senators who also happen to own a billion-dollar car part manufacturing business aren’t used to taking no for an answer.

I straighten my collar and accept the call. Today I’ll get through to him. He’ll have to accept that some things don’t work out the way wealthy men want them to.

“Hello, Mr. Latif.”

A man with graying hair parted to the side and a thin goatee wrapped around his lips gazes back at me. He’s in his office. A concrete parking lot stretches into the distance through the window behind him.

“At last she answers.”

His voice is smooth like silk—but I see the contempt lingering behind his eyes. I meet his gaze coolly. Men like him will never see me sweat. Discreetly, I slide my finger over my mouse, wake up my computer, and hit record. You never know.

“How can I help you, Mr. Latif?” I ask.

“You know exactly how you can help me. Icameto you for help. Filled out your inane paperwork and signed all the releases. What did I get instead?”

“As I explained during our last call,” I tell him, “our protocol is to work with the personseekinga match directly—”

“Fuck the protocol!”

His mouth presses into a thin line. He’s half a continent away in Detroit, and I’m accustomed to toxic masculinity by now, but a shiver runs through me all the same. He looks as though he wishes he could strike a hand through the screen.

“Since when did helping your own child find a partner become taboo? I was matched with my own wife thanks to the help of my parents. They were the sound voices of reason guiding me toward the proper path. Sounds like someone has forgotten their ancestral roots.”

My cheeks warm. “I understand how things were done, Mr. Latif, but that’s not how I run my business. And not wanting to go behind a child’s back to broker their marriage is not betraying my heritage. If youandyour son wanted to reach out together to discuss options, that would be one thing. Most people do and—”

“Do you not hear me?” His fist slams on the table. “Farhan isn’t ready.”

“If he’s not ready to discuss his own marriage, then he isn’t ready for our services.”

“Is this about money?” He pauses. “I’ll double your asking rate.”

I grip the edge of my seat. He’s insulting me. And it’s working.

“We are not the right agency for you, Mr. Latif. As a courtesy, our admin will reverse your application fees. I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

“You’re sorry?” An ugly smile spreads across his face.

My stomach twists.Here we go.

“Do you have any idea who I am?” He leans forward. “I could ruin you with a couple of phone calls. A few well-placed anonymously sourced stories about misconduct, and you’re done.”

“Any such story would be false.”

“It won’t matter. Ruined reputations don’t repair as easily as you might think. Another nugget of cultural wisdom you probably haven’t learned. Not yet, at least.”

He leans back now, arms crossed. Like a self-satisfied fox from a Brothers Grimm tale. I take a deep breath. People imagine my job is all about attending lavish weddings, wearing saris and bangles, and partaking in private yoga sessions with a client while we hash out their ideal match. They don’t see the moments like these, where you smile and stay calm instead of telling the other person what you really think about them. Luckily, I have a long-established protocol to keep me grounded.

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