Matchmaker Mayhem

The third day of the convention was proving to be as chaotic as a squirrel convention in a coffee bean warehouse. The air buzzed with a mix of caffeine-fueled energy and barely contained tension, while event planners scurried around like caffeinated honeybees trying to coordinate the day’s activities. Ava stood near the refreshment table, stealing a moment of peace with a tiny plate of hors d’oeuvres that looked like they’d been designed by an architect with a Napoleon complex. She was running on adrenaline, sheer stubbornness, and enough espresso to fuel a small Italian village, all while juggling the chaos of the challenges with the ever-present knowledge that Julian was lurking somewhere, probably practicing his evil genius laugh behind a potted plant.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t Julian who found her first—it was Ethan, who had the impeccable timing of a telemarketer calling during dinner.

"Enjoying yourself, Lee?" Ethan’s voice, slick with false charm that could oil a squeaky door, cut through her brief respite like a butter knife through a frozen stick of butter—ineffectively but persistently annoying.

Ava turned, forcing herself to smile despite the instinctive desire to groan loud enough to wake the dead. "What do you want, Ethan? Come to practice your supervillain monologue?"

"Oh, nothing much," Ethan said, leaning casually against the table, which immediately wobbled under his weight like a drunk flamingo. "Just thought I’d check in. You know, see how New York’s treating you. I heard you had a bit of trouble in the last challenge. Must be tough, being so... traditional."

He pronounced "traditional" the way most people might say "converts Excel files to PDF for fun."

Ava’s eyes narrowed to the width of a paper cut. "If you’re referring to the chaos you caused with the seating chart—which, by the way, looked like it was arranged by a blindfolded toddler playing musical chairs—I’d say it’s going fine. Despite your best efforts to turn it into a reality TV show disaster."

Ethan smirked, his expression reminiscent of a cat who’d just discovered an unattended fishbowl. "Come on, don’t be like that. It’s all in good fun. Besides, I think you’re taking this whole matchmaking thing a little too seriously. It’s not rocket science—though Julian’s algorithms might disagree."

"Seriously?" Ava said, crossing her arms with the precision of a crossing guard who’d had enough of jaywalking teenagers. "You mean like how you’re taking Julian’s algorithms so seriously you’re practically his assistant now? What’s next, following him around with a portable fan for dramatic effect?"

Ethan’s smirk faltered like a soufflé in an earthquake, and his eyes flickered with irritation. "At least Julian understands how to innovate. Your whole ’follow your instincts’ shtick is quaint, but let’s be real—it’s about as current as a flip phone at an Apple convention."

Ava opened her mouth to fire back with what would have undoubtedly been a devastating critique of his personality flaws (she had a list, alphabetized and color-coded), but before she could, a familiar voice cut in like a hot knife through pretension.