Hair: still in place. Sleek. Sophisticated.
She looked good.
She looked like someone who belonged at Boston's most elite matchmaking firm.
She looked like someone who hadn't quit her job on a whim 6 months ago to pursue a career in the stable industry ofmatchmakingand never looked back.
Emmy took a breath. Squared her shoulders.
You're good at this. You understand people—really understand them, not just the surface stuff. You can read between lines, identify what someone needs versus what they think they want. That's rare. That matters.
She believed approximately sixty percent of this. Better than yesterday's forty percent.
Emmy left the coffee shop and walked the final block. The building was beautiful—original brick renovated with unlimited budget and excellent designers. A discreet brass plaque beside the door was so understated it basically screamedwe don't need to advertise.
The door opened before Emmy could reach for it.
"Welcome to Elite Connections," the doorman said with a warm smile. His name badge readRYAN. "You must be the two o'clock."
“I’m Emmy." She smiled and extended her hand for him to shake. "Tell me something—do I look like Elite Connections' newest junior matchmaker?"
"I thought you already worked here," he said with a wink.
Emmy felt herself smile. "I'm going to remember you said that."
"Yes ma'am," he said, and held the door wider.
The lobby hit her all at once.
Cream marble. Contemporary art. Furniture that belonged in a different tax bracket entirely. But it wasn't just beauty—it wasatmosphere. The sense that everyone who walked through this door was someone. Someone successful, someone who mattered, someone whose time was valuable enough to hire professionals for every aspect of life, including love.
Emmy wanted to be someone who belonged here.
She wanted it so badly her chest ached.
A woman at the reception desk looked up. Probably Emmy's age, maybe younger, but she had that effortless elegance thatsuggested she'd never stressed about rent or googled ‘how to negotiate salary’ at 2 AM. Her nameplate readBECKANNE.
Emmy Woodhouse." Steady. Confident. Convincing. "I have a two o'clock with Ms. Ferrance."
Beckanne's smile was tightly professional but not warm. "She'll see you shortly. Please have a seat."
Emmy chose the chair facing the elevator—amateur mistake to sit with your back to the room—and set her portfolio on her lap. Resisted the urge to pull out her phone.
Instead, she waited.
She'd been at one of their weddings once—a bride she'd planned for, matched by Elite Connections. The way that woman had looked at her husband wasn't about his trust fund, his connections, or his grandmother's cottage in Nantucket. It was something Emmy had never seen at a wedding before.There you are. She'd spent the entire reception pretending she had something in her eye.
She wanted to do that. Put the right two people in the same room and watch the rest take care of itself.
"Ms. Woodhouse?" Beckanne was standing, gesturing toward a hallway. "Ms. Ferrance is ready."
Emmy stood. Smoothed her dress. Followed Beckanne down a corridor lined with art illuminated from above by little brass spotlights.
The hallway opened into a corner office with windows overlooking downtown Boston. The harbor glittered in afternoon sun, the financial district's towers rose against the sky, and the sprawl of the city Emmy had lived in most of her life stretched out in all directions.
She barely registered it because Cecelia Ferrance was sitting behind her desk, and everything about her was more intimidating than any skyline.
Fifty-something. Blonde in that expensive way that involved a colorist and regular maintenance. Wearing Chanel—Emmy's fashion knowledge was limited but she knew Chanel when she saw it. Everything about Cecelia saidI built this empire from the wreckage of my marriage, and I'd do it againwithout hesitation.
