By twenty-nine, Sebastian Dahlin had ruled out bad luck, poor timing, and unfortunate statistics.
The only logical explanation left was that he was cursed.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
Exhibit A: Jane Wilson.
Ninth grade.
He'd convinced her the biology lab frog had secretly been turned into a prince.
She'd kissed it.
The frog, unsurprisingly, remained a frog.
Jane, cheeks blazing while the rest of the class laughed themselves sick, pointed a finger at him with terrifying conviction.
"You'll never find true love, Sebastian Dahlin."
At fourteen, he'd laughed.
At twenty-nine...
The joke was wearing thin.
Over the years, there had been enough near-misses to make supernatural interference seem statistically plausible.
A lawyer cried.
A Broadway actress ghosted him.
A medical resident threw a very expensive glass of Pinot Noir.
Another woman looked him dead in the eyes and calmly informed him he was "emotionally unavailable in a way that should be studied by scientists."
Which...
Felt unnecessarily personal.
Perhaps he wasn't cursed.
Perhaps he was simply an emotionally unavailable investment banker with the conflict-resolution skills of a raccoon trapped inside a luxury apartment.
Or perhaps, if TikTok astrologers were to be believed, every woman whose heart he'd accidentally bruised had unknowingly formed a supernatural union dedicated to ruining his romantic life.
His friends certainly thought so.
"You're a nice asshole," Alex liked to say.
Claire always corrected him.
"No."
"He's a polite red flag."
The real problem, however, wasn't Alex.
Or Claire.
It was his grandmother.
Every Sunday afternoon, without fail, she'd call from San Jose.
Every Sunday afternoon, she'd somehow end the conversation with exactly the same sentence.
"Before I die, sweetheart, I'd just love to see you married."
No shouting. No pressure.
Just enough quiet disappointment to completely dismantle a grown man.
So Sebastian did something drastic.
He applied to Erotes.
Not an app.
Not speed dating.
Erotes—New York's discreet matchmaking agency favored by CEOs, celebrities, old-money families, and people wealthy enough to outsource finding the love of their lives.
Alex suggested it.
Claire practically completed the application for him.
"You need professional intervention."
"I do not."
"You absolutely do."
She'd even rewritten his profile.
"No woman wants to read, 'Financially stable. Six-foot-three.'"
"It matters."
"It doesn't."
"It absolutely does."
Weeks later, Sebastian walked into Cipriani Downtown for his consultation.
Not a date.
A meeting.
The email had been simple.
Long banquette near the windows.I'll be wearing a navy dress. Please don't be nervous.
He wasn't.
He negotiated billion-dollar acquisitions.
One conversation with a matchmaker wasn't going to—
"There."
The maître d' gestured toward the dining room.
Sebastian looked.
He found the long banquette.
He found the navy dress.
Then he found...
Her.
She was writing in a leather notebook, a half-finished espresso cooling beside her. At the sound of his footsteps, she looked up, tucked a loose strand of hair behind one ear, and smiled. Not dazzling. Not flirtatious. Just warm. The sort of smile that suggested she'd already decided to like the person sitting across from her.
This was ridiculous. She was his matchmaker. A professional. She probably smiled at everyone like that. His brain understood this. His heart, apparently, had already submitted its resignation.
Everything else disappeared.
The restaurant.
The conversations.
The piano music.
Gone.
...
Well.
That seemed catastrophically inconvenient.
For years, Sebastian Dahlin had been spectacularly incapable of falling in love.
Now, somehow...
He'd managed to do it in under ten seconds.
With the one woman whose entire job was finding him somebody else.
Jane Wilson, he thought miserably.
Congratulations.
The curse works.