Prologue
She was dancing.
The ballroom was too grand, too golden. Candlelight flickered like stars caught in a chandelier's breath, and everything smelled faintly of roses, smoke, and memory.
There was music somewhere. Distant, muffled, like it came through a veil of dreams.
And she was dancing.
Her feet moved without thinking. The silk hem of her dress brushed polished floors she didn't recognize, her breath rising in soft puffs like it belonged to someone else. The man leading her was faceless. Familiar.
His hands were warm. His touch knew her.
But she could never quite see his eyes.
"Do you love me?" she asked.
He didn't answer. Just pulled her close until the dream began to blur at the edges.
And then—
A shift.
Salt.
Light.
The smell of wedding cake.
Yvaine stirred with a soft groan, the morning sun pouring through her open balcony doors like an uninvited guest. She rolled slightly, silk sheets tangled around her limbs, and blinked against the golden glare that turned her vision into smeared watercolor.
Her back hurt. Her thighs hurt. Her dignity… undecided.
She blinked again. Sat up a little.
Something was off.
Then she saw him.
A man. In her bed.
Golden hair tousled like it had been through a storm—and won. Bare back smooth, strong. Breathing deep and slow, as if the world had never dared wake him.
She stared. Her pulse stuttered.
Her assistant didn't have golden hair.
Her assistant had freckles, bangs long enough to hide behind, and the emotional charisma of a damp sock.
This man looked like sin, sunlight, and scandal had conspired together to ruin her peace.
She flinched back instinctively—and winced.
Everything ached.
E.V.E.R.Y.T.H.I.N.G
And then the man stirred.
Turned.
Opened his eyes.
"Are you alright, milady?"
She blinked. Froze. Then pointed a horrified finger. "That's not your face."
He rubbed at his eyes, clearly still waking. "You're mumbling again."
"I am fully conscious, and that is a face I've never emotionally bullied before. Where are your freckles?! Your tragic fringe?! You look like a prince drawn by someone with unresolved romantic trauma!"
"You've definitely been drinking again," he said with a sigh that did, in fact, sound like her assistant.
And somehow… it *was.*
She groaned and dropped back into the pillows, flinging an arm over her face. "Too much wine. Too much cake. Too much reality being replaced by a fever dream."
He chuckled softly, leaned in, and tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. "You're safe. Go back to sleep."
And she did.
Because it was easier to believe it was all a dream when his voice was gentle and the bed still warm.
But when her breaths evened out, and her fingers curled toward the center of the bed—
He rose.
The sheets smelled like her. Like citrus, spice, and something dangerously close to comfort.
He padded silently to the mirror.
And what met him wasn't the assistant she teased or threatened to marry quarterly for tax deductions. No.
It was himself.
Unmasked. Unhidden.
The face he'd avoided for years stared back—older, sharper, real.
He touched his collarbone. The necklace his mother gave him—gone. Probably pulled off in the clumsy chaos of the night. He found it on the floor, broken, and cradled it like an old truth.
And then the memories surged.
A shipwreck. A storm. His father's voice commanded him to vanish. A childhood spent in the shadows.
And her.
Always her.
The woman who poured brandy over political tension, who sang off-key while calculating trade routes, who never looked back—but always made room at her side.
He didn't know when he started falling.
When her voice settled in his chest like prayer. When her laughter made things ache. When he memorized her footsteps to guess how tired she was. How he tied her hair up so it wouldn't be a bother whenever she went hunting.
When he began to wish her drunken jokes were promises.
He stepped to the foot of the bed and looked at her.
Yvaine, tangled in sleep and reckless softness, lips parted just slightly, a smile still hovering like a secret.
The world wanted him to return.
But part of him wanted to stay, frozen in that morning sun, where no one knew his name and she looked at him like maybe—just maybe—he belonged.
His hand curled around the broken chain.
"How am I supposed to leave now?" he whispered.
But he knew.
The letter had arrived last night.
His true name. His bloodline. The empire was whispering for him to come home.
He turned back to the desk and wrote.
A letter. Measured. Steady. Like how she always accused him of being when she was trying to pick a fight.
Milady,
By the time this reaches your hands, I may already be on the road to the truth I once buried beneath the tide.
Please know, I did not leave because I doubted you. I left because I wanted to come back with nothing to hide.
I will write. I will return. And until then…
Do not fill the space beside you.
I have claimed it and even sealed it just last night, if you must remember, and I intend to prove I'm worthy of staying there.
You once said I was yours.
Let me prove I always have been.
Your Confidant ~ Eirian
He sealed it with the wax of her house crest.
Because it would always be hers.
And he would always be the one following just behind, quiet and certain, ready to catch her if the world ever made her stumble.
When Yvaine woke again, the sun was higher and her mouth dry with regret, she reached for her favorite book.
And found the letter.
She read it once.
Then again.
And instead of crying—
She smiled.
Because he said he'd return.
And for her, that was enough...
📝 Author's Note:
Hi! I'm Mintz, and welcome to Matchmaking the Leads (And Myself, Hopefully) 🥹💛
This is a romantic comedy with a swirl of mystery, slow-burn affection, and a heroine who probably drinks too much and forgets she's hot. Thank you for reading this far. I hope you'll stay for the banter, the secrets, and the ship that might sail off the charts.
👉 If you enjoyed the prologue, please consider subscribing or dropping a comment. I read every single one while dramatically sighing like I'm in a period drama.
Let's matchmake the chaos. 💌😉