Failure to Match: An Enemies to Lovers Billionaire Matchmaker Romance

Vivian looked like she wanted to rip out her own hair and strangle me with it.

I couldn’t exactly blame her, but I could say that it was unnecessary. I was already suffocating.

The three of us were standing in her office, chins tucked low like a bunch of chastised children. Well, except for Alice. While my spine had withered into a defensive slouch, her posture was kept at a normal angle, and I swear she was starting to zone out from the boredom. Probably because we’d already been here for a half-hour while Vivian yelled and slammed things down on her desk.

If I was being completely honest, Vivian’s reaction didn’t seem fair to me. I mean, she’d told us she didn’t care how we got her results, so long as we got them. Those had been her instructions.

I was starting to think Alice’s observations were accurate. It was becoming increasingly evident that the three of us were nothing but sacrificial scapegoats to her.

If we succeeded, she would gladly take all the credit. If we failed… well, this. We were living it. She’d pushed us into doing something spectacularly risky out of desperation, and now she was about to fire us over it. Alice, Mitch, and I would never be able to find another job in the industry after this got out, but that didn’t matter to Vivian. As long as the blame was being put on others, the damage to her professional reputation would take a reduced hit.

After all, the majority of our clients were here to work directly with her. She’d probably spin this to make herself look like the victim. She was good at that. PR was her forte.

Still, the people pleaser in me—the one that desperately needed her boss to approve of her—was weeping. And I didn’t know how to turn it off.

“What in the ever-loving fuck were you thinking?” She kept pacing, pacing, pacing. The question was made to sound like it was directed at the group, but her eyes were drilling holes into my skull. “Jamie! I asked you a question!”

Normally, I’d have forced myself to meet her gaze and respond, but I really didn’t have it in me today. I hadn’t slept all night, my feet were sore and blistered from limping home in those cursed heels, and a good chunk of my mind was preoccupied with trying to figure out how the three of us were going to come up with fourteen thousand dollars in seven days.

Because that’s how much the torn dress and bloodied, water-damaged shoes cost to replace: $13,921.32. The bill was due next Friday.

Oh, and my phone only took calls on speaker now, so I had to replace that too. But at least I’d gotten it to turn on. The overnight rice thing really did work.

Alice had offered to go to her parents for the money, but I knew how desperately she wanted to avoid that. The whole point of her moving here was to stand on her own two feet.

Vivian scoffed when I stayed quiet. “Nothing? You have nothing to say for yourself after ruining this company’s reputation? After tainting all the hard work, blood, sweat, and fucking tears I’ve put into building this brand from the ground up?” She stopped pacing, placed her hands on her narrow hips, and opened her mouth to rip into me some more. But she was interrupted by a string of soft knocks on her door.

“What?” she snapped.

Laury poked her head into the room gingerly. “I’m so sorry to interrupt, but the Sinclairs have arrived. Their car just pulled up to the building.”

I glanced to my left, my pulse lurching. Mitch and Alice were as shocked as I was.

The Sinclairs were here? Plural? I’d assumed Jackson would send a member of his team (maybe a lawyer) to speak to Vivian on his behalf.

Vivian’s entire demeanor changed. Her hands dropped from her hips and crumpled into fists, her head raising an inch as her throat worked with a swallow. Nerves. Vivian Hale was nervous.

“Fine,” she said, an edge to her voice, “I’ll meet them in the Rosé Room right away.”

Which meant we were finally dismissed. I desperately needed a cup of coffee and a good bathroom stall cry. But just as I began to turn on my sore heel, Vivian snapped her fingers and pointed one at me.

“You,” she said. “You’re coming with me.”

I tensed, my stomach clenching.

Alice glanced between Vivian and me, her brows drawing together. “Should we come as well?”

“No. The two of you are to head straight to the White Room and wait. Jamie and I will join you after our meeting.”

“But—”

“Now, Alice. Before I call security and have you escorted there.”

Alice gave me a look before obeying, though I couldn’t tell what she was trying to communicate with it. The stress and lack of sleep had destroyed my cognitive functioning. I was barely able to think, and now I had to stand in front of the Sinclairs and go through this whole berating nightmare all over again.

At this point, getting fired would be a relief.

Jackson’s aunt was, to put it lightly, an experience.

Minerva Sinclair was a tall, willowy woman with stark white hair and cutting features, and her signature “look” consisted of cherry-red pantsuits, vintage cat-eye sunglasses, and knife-sharp stilettos. Per our client paperwork, she had her personal tarot reader (Imogen) on speed dial and kept her wrinkly sphynx cat (Harry) cradled against her bony chest everywhere she went, as per the guidance of her spiritual advisor (Velma).

Honestly, if her nephew wasn’t such a pain in our asses, I’d think she was pretty awesome. She had the type of old money, no-fucks-given energy you couldn’t help but admire. Also, she’d literally named her hairless cat Harry, and I didn’t think she’d intended the pun.

Still, even with all that going on, my eyes immediately gravitated to the figure looming behind her.

He walked into the room like he owned the whole building and everyone in it. His presence demanded my attention, from his imposing height to the perfectly tailored crisp black suit.

It was surprisingly aggravating. Irritation flamed across my chest when his frosty eyes found mine, narrowing.

See? I knew it. That was their whole personality.

My eyes rolled before I could stop them, and it was noticeable enough that Minerva caught it, her white eyebrows arching behind the curve of her sunglasses.

“Minerva.” Vivian gave the air around her client’s cheeks two swift kisses. Her brown-nosing was not acknowledged; the air kisses were not returned. “It’s so nice to see you again. Come. Sit, sit. Laury’s on her way with your tea. And Mr. Sinclair, it is such an honor to finally meet⁠—”

“Is this her?” Minerva interrupted. Her crisp voice tipped with an unidentifiable accent—a mixture of French, German, and British, maybe.

Vivian stiffened, her smile wavering just slightly. “This is Jamie Paquin, the employee we were discussing over the phone this morning. That’s correct.”

“Jack.”

Jackson Sinclair’s head tilted mockingly to one side. “I’m not sure,” he drawled, “her features weren’t exactly memorable.”

My anger flared, a rush of buzzing warmth sprinting through my body.

“Says the man with the personality of a hardboiled egg.”

You could hear a fucking pin drop.

In my defense, I hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

Okay, that was a lie. I’d definitely meant to say it out loud.

“I beg your pardon?” His eyes slit into challenging icicles. He wasn’t smirking anymore.

I wondered what I’d need to do to get them to close all the way. It probably wouldn’t take much.

“Oh, I’m sorry, are you hard of hearing, Mr. Sinclair, or is wasting people’s time simply a hobby of yours?” I spat back.

Okay.

All right.

That one may have taken it a bit too far. I needed to reel it back. He deserved it, in my opinion, but Vivian was gaping at me like I’d smacked her across the face with a drowned sewer rat. This wasn’t how I was supposed to be behaving. She’d brought me here to act as a good little punching bag. The silent kind that didn’t talk back.

Maybe that was what Alice had been communicating with her look. She’d been trying to warn me.

Irritation swept over my skin, its claws sinking into my throat. It was an uncomfortably vivid sensation, and very new. I wasn’t used to this level of frustration. I wanted to throw something. Flip the whole room off. Cry.

Minerva Sinclair peeled off her sunglasses slowly, her slim, scrutinizing eyes running over me twice.

“Sorry,” I muttered to her—and her only—while my fingers curled into my palms. “He said that to me last night. It was unwarranted and rather rude.”

Her right eyebrow arched. “Before or after your true identity was revealed?”

“Before,” I said, even though Vivian was giving me her shut-the-fuck-up-this-instant look.

What was she going to do? Fire me?

Jackson’s head jutted forward like he simply could not believe my audacity. “Is this your fucked up version of an apology?”

I ground my teeth, my nails digging into my palms, determined in their quest to draw blood. “Your chances of receiving any sort of apology from me were squandered the second you kicked me out of your apartment at night with no clothes and no working phone.”

Vivian’s soul was yanked straight out of her body. The color drained from her face so rapidly I thought she might faint. She didn’t know about the pool incident. She’d heard a shortened version of the story from Minerva over the phone last night, called us into her office bright and early this morning, and refused to hear us out when we’d tried to explain.

She had no context as to why I was inside Jackson Sinclair’s apartment naked. And you know what, maybe she didn’t deserve any.

Minerva’s face went slack before tightening again, and then she was twisting on her sharp heels and glaring up at her giant nephew. “You what?”

An irritated muscle worked its way through Jackson’s jaw, his eyes flicking up to the ceiling like it could grant him the patience he needed to deal with my bullshit. “I didn’t— It should have gone without saying that you were to leave after getting dressed, but you ran out before I could correct myself.”

“Oh please,” I scoffed, “if you’re gonna do shitty things, at least have the balls to own up to them.”

“I did the shitty thing?” he snarled incredulously as he stalked forward. “Miss Paquin, might I remind you that you trespassed onto my property under false pretenses, disguised as a matchmade romantic interest, and proceeded to record our meeting without my knowledge or consent. Please explain how I’m the bad guy for kicking you out of my home as a consequence.”

“All right, fine,” I said. “I’m sorry for that part. I acknowledge that it was wrong. But I only did it because you’ve spent the last eight months refusing to meet with us. You haven’t taken any of our tests or answered any of our calls or filled out any of our questionnaires yourself. One of your interns did the lifestyle assessment on your behalf, for heaven’s sake. How does that make any sense when we’re literally trying to find you a life partner?”

“My lack of participation in your inane methods does not excuse several illegal acts that⁠—”

“You haven’t participated in any of their assessments yourself?” Both of Minerva’s eyebrows were curved now.

Jackson’s lips pressed into a line so tight, it drained them of life. “Not… directly, no,” he managed through gritted teeth. “There was no need. They’ve been provided with more than enough data to find me a suitable match.”

“With all due respect, the data we’ve been given by your team is so limiting that there’s⁠—”

“Jamie. Enough.”

The rest of my complaint withered against the chill of Vivian’s tone, an apology forming in its place. But I swallowed it back. She knew that Jackson wouldn’t take any of our tests himself. We’d brought it up in countless meetings with her. So how was this the first time Minerva was hearing about it?

They had two scheduled meetings a month to discuss our progress, so how had she not thought to mention something so important during any of their sixteen meetings to date? Maybe Minerva could have helped. Maybe she could have convinced Jackson to at least sit down with us for a bit.

We’d been working non-fucking-stop for eight months straight and she couldn’t have done just one thing to help us out?

My frustration built and built until it reached my eyes. But I would not—I would not—cry in front of these people.

“You’re dismissed,” Vivian said.

Gladly.

But I wasn’t going to wait for her in the White Room. I was going to walk straight out of here, crawl into bed with a bottle of Pinot and a pint of chocolate ice cream, and re-binge the seventh season of Chef Wars International. (Daniel Omori’s chin dimple and three-legged golden retriever were medicine for my withered soul.)

Tomorrow I’d send Vivian my zero-weeks’ notice and start looking for new jobs.

I didn’t know what the hell I was going to do about the money I owed for the dress and shoes, but I’d figure something out.

“Actually, no,” Minerva said just as I began to limp-march out of Vivian’s office. Jackson’s attention flicked to my feet momentarily, his jaw working as it clenched, unclenched.

Not only were his freaky eyes only capable of one look, but the man as a whole was only capable of experiencing one emotion.

See? The personality of a hardboiled egg. With, like, added hot sauce or something. And not the good kind.

“Pardon?” Vivian tried her best to keep her tone light even though she was vibrating with rage. How dare I not act as the silent emotional punching bag she’d brought me in here to be? What else was I, the disposable employee she’d been taking advantage of over the better part of the last year good for?

“I’d like her to stay,” Minerva said, still watching me as she scratched Harry the hairless cat mindlessly. He was super cute. Real ugly, but very adorable. And the diamond collar wrapped loosely around his wrinkly neck likely cost more than I was set to make this entire year.

He had it made, and he knew it per the bored, unimpressed way he was slowly blinking at me.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Minerva,” Vivian tried.

Minerva barely spared her a glance. “Didn’t you mention something about tea? Why don’t you go fetch us some of that while this young lady and I chat? What type of tea do you normally drink, Miss Paquin, was it?”

“Jamie,” I offered.

A dangerous number of crimson blotches began spreading across Vivian’s face and neck. “My assistant is actually brewing⁠—”

“Do they know what type of tea Jamie likes?” Minerva asked slowly, bright nails scraping lovingly against Harry’s long neck.

“I don’t think it’s necessary to keep her here for the meeting,” Jackson cut in.

I bit my tongue.

“Nonsense. The meeting is about her; she deserves to be heard. Vivian, bring the poor girl some chamomile or something. I don’t want to have to ask again. She’s clearly distressed, and from what little I’ve heard her say, I don’t blame her.”

Well, that was kind of her.

Jackson didn’t seem to agree. His shoulders rose a rigid inch, his throat working to swallow back an argument he knew he probably wouldn’t win.

Vivian left the room without another word.

“Sit down,” Minerva ordered.

I listened, Jackson didn’t. He remained on his feet, looming over us like one of those scowling gargoyles attached to the exterior walls of medieval cathedrals. That is until his aunt slipped him a pointed look that made his jaw tick. He lowered into the chair beside her.

“Now,” Minerva started, “tell me what happened last night.”

Jackson tapped his foot. “This is a waste of time. I’ve explained⁠—”

“Hush. I’ve already heard your version of the events. You barked about it for a full hour this morning. It’s her turn.”

He bristled. “She’s a liar and a fraud, Minerva. How can you believe a word⁠—”

“Either shut up, Jackson, or go help Vivian with the tea.”

Oh, hell yes.

Smug delight sprouted in my chest, easing the tension in my shoulders. I decided right then that, despite her unfortunate blood relation to the grumpiest hardboiled egg on the planet, I liked Minerva Sinclair. And I was going to tell her the truth.

After all, what did I have to lose?

“We call him Jack the Ripper,” I told her.

That was probably a good place to start.