Roman Sterling || It’s A Match!

The Misunderstanding

The gala had been a predictable affair—champagne flutes, false laughter, and a parade of investors hoping to catch his attention. Roman had endured two hours of it before a staff member appeared at his elbow, murmuring something about a private matter requiring his attention.

He should have been suspicious. He wasn't.

The staff led him through a corridor lined with oil paintings, away from the orchestral hum of the main hall, until they reached a secluded alcove bathed in the soft glow of a single sconce. And there she stood.

Roman stopped breathing.

She was... exquisite. Not in the polished, calculated way of the socialites who circulated the gala like sharks scenting blood. No, this was something different. Something that made his chest tighten uncomfortably.

The dim light caught the curves of her face, the graceful line of her neck, the way her dress hugged her figure like it had been crafted specifically for her. His gaze traced her slowly, thoroughly—the way he would assess a valuable acquisition—only this felt far more dangerous.

So this is what Mother commissioned, he thought, a flicker of genuine surprise breaking through his carefully maintained composure. He had expected someone adequate. Pleasant enough to tolerate across a dinner table. Someone who checked the right boxes on a list his mother had undoubtedly compiled.

He had not expected this.

His fingers found his signet ring, twisting it absently as he studied her further. The agency had outdone themselves. Or perhaps his mother had been more specific in her requirements than he'd given her credit for.

Roman exhaled slowly, recalibrating. He could work with this. More than work with it—he felt an unfamiliar pull toward her, something instinctive and primal that had no place in an arranged introduction.

He straightened his cuffs, squared his shoulders, and let his gaze settle on her face with deliberate intensity. His green-gray eyes darkened with something unreadable.

Well, he thought, a rare smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Perhaps Mother's meddling won't be insufferable after all.

He stepped forward, closing the distance between them with measured grace. The scent of her hit him again—closer now, unmistakable. His jaw tightened. He extended his hand, his voice low and warm in the quiet space.

"Roman Sterling." His head tilted slightly, dark eyes never leaving her face. "I assume you're my intended introduction for the evening."

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The Morning After

Roman had never felt ridiculous in his life.

Until last night.

The memory made his jaw tick as his Mercedes pulled up to Aether & Co.'s discreet office building. My intended introduction. Christ. He had stood there, smug and certain, extending his hand to the matchmaker herself like some lovesick fool in a romance novel.

He exhaled sharply, adjusting his cufflinks as he stepped out of the car.

The office was refined—minimalist, tasteful, deliberately unimposing. A receptionist guided him to a private consultation room where she was already waiting.

Roman paused at the threshold.

She looked different in daylight. Softer, somehow, without the gala's golden haze. Professional in a way that made his chest tighten for an entirely different reason than last night. Her desk was arranged with meticulous precision, several leather-bound portfolios fanned out before her.

Then she looked up, and he saw it—that spark of genuine enthusiasm in her eyes as she immediately reached for the first portfolio.

He watched her flip it open, gesturing to a photograph of a striking brunette. Her movements were animated, purposeful. She pointed to details—the woman's background, her education, her interests—her hands moving with the confidence of someone who genuinely loved her work.

Roman lowered himself into the chair across from her, one ankle crossing over his knee. His expression remained carefully neutral, though his fingers had already found his signet ring.

"She's..." He leaned forward, studying the profile. "Impeccable credentials. Stanford, I assume? The family name's familiar."

She flipped to the next portfolio before he could finish. A blonde this time. Art curator. Roman's eyebrow lifted.

"You're not wasting time, are you?" A faint hint of dry amusement crept into his voice. "Straight to the heavy hitters."

She was already pulling a third portfolio, her excitement palpable as she laid it beside the others. He noticed the way her shoulders relaxed into this—how her whole demeanor shifted when discussing her craft. It was... unexpectedly captivating.

He tilted his head, watching her rather than the portfolios.

"You have quite the selection." His voice was lower now, thoughtful. "Tell me—do you always present clients with this many options, or am I a special case?"

She gestured enthusiastically to another profile, and Roman felt the corner of his mouth twitch despite himself.

Irreplaceable

Three weeks. Twelve dates. Zero connection.

Roman stood at the floor-to-ceiling window of his office, Manhattan sprawling beneath him like a circuit board of lights. His tie was loosened, his sleeves rolled to his forearms—a state of undress he only allowed when genuinely irritated.

The women were flawless on paper. Harvard-educated. Multilingual. Descended from families whose lineage made the Sterlings look nouveau riche. Every single one had been... fine.

Fine.

The word tasted like ash.

The first date had talked about her yacht collection for forty-seven minutes. The second had dissected his net worth with surgical precision over dessert. The third had been genuinely lovely—until she mocked his mother's Italian accent under the guise of humor.

Roman had ended that one himself. Personally. At the restaurant. His driver had never pulled away from a curb so fast.

But the real problem—the one he refused to name—was none of that.

It was her.

Every woman sat across from him and he found himself cataloging the differences. Not as warm. Not as genuine. Doesn't tilt her head like that. Doesn't have that spark when she talks about her work. He'd catch scents that weren't quite right. See smiles that didn't reach the eyes the way hers did.

He was comparing every woman to his goddamn matchmaker.

"Mr. Sterling?" His assistant's voice broke through his thoughts. "A representative from Aether & Co. is on the line. They say it's... urgent."

Roman's jaw tightened. He picked up the receiver.

"Sterling."

The voice on the other end was clipped, professional, apologetic in the way that meant they'd already made their decision. He listened. His free hand curled into a fist at his side.

"Dismissed?" His voice dropped dangerously low. "You're removing her from my case."

The explanation came—metrics, success rates, client satisfaction protocols. Roman heard none of it. His gaze snapped to the door, as if she might materialize there.

"I wasn't dissatisfied with her work."

A pause. Then the representative clarified gently that twelve failed matches suggested otherwise.

Roman's thumb pressed hard against the receiver. His chest felt like someone had carved something out of it.

"And who," he said slowly, each word measured, "do you intend to assign in her place?"

The name meant nothing to him. He didn't care to remember it.

"No." The word came out harder than intended. "I don't accept the reassignment."

Another measured response about agency policy and client obligations.

Roman's eyes closed. His signet ring turned twice beneath his thumb.

"Then I'll terminate my contract with your agency entirely."

...