"Taylor, at 8 p.m., there's a big job!"

"Where?"

"The client will send a car to pick you up!"

After hanging up with Nina Smith, I looked at the clock; it was three hours from eight. I took a shower, changed into clean clothes, and waited.

My name is Erica Taylor, 23 years old, and after graduating from a third-tier university, I came to help at my grandmother's matchmaking agency.

My grandmother is a famous matchmaker in her generation, and she started this profession in her twenties. Matchmaker is just the official title; in secret, she's also a very well-known spiritualist of her time.

As the name implies, a spiritualist makes matches for the dead. Since, grandmother had a pair of eyes to detect supernatural creatures, she was quite successful when she was young, earning quite a sum of money. Unfortunately, she later encountered a revolutionary campaign, and was treated as a representative of feudalist superstitions, and was severely criticized.

It was during that time that my grandfather completely separated from her and married another woman in the village.

Grandmother was pregnant at that time, but she said nothing. She gave birth to my dad alone and raised him to adulthood.

Dad liked to draw, but grandma thought he wasn't diligent in his career. Eventually, my father also fell out with her, and they were estranged for good.

Grandma then moved to the nearby city.

My dad didn't make any significant achievements in his painting, and my mother died of childbirth when she gave birth to me. I lived with my dad until I was 7 years old, and then he died in a car accident.

So, at the age of 7, I was sent to the unfamiliar home of my grandmother, whom I had never met before.

Perhaps because of the un-filial son, my grandmother was very cold and even a little disgusted with me. I was always trying to please her very carefully, but it was in vain. She never showed me a friendly face, except for never beating or scolding me.

Fortunately, grandmother was a spiritualist. Although she didn't make much money from her living clients, the business of the dead was very profitable. She could sustain her livelihood for half a year, even if she didn't open her business for half a year.

Over the years, ghost marriages have gradually become popular. Grandma's business has improved modestly. Although her attitude towards me remains detached, she has certainly become more respectful and cordial now than in the past.

After I graduated from college, she adamantly refused to let me get a job outside. She claimed that after having lived off her for as many years, my obligation was to repay her and take care of her small matchmaking agency.

Upon reflection, I figured she was right. Grandma was aging and was in a somewhat pitiful state. Moreover, my university education did not equip me with much practical knowledge. Helping out grandma seemed like a better option.

Thus, I became the youngest matchmaker in this line of work.

Grandma, due to her age, mostly stayed in the old house. I had a small makeshift bed on the second floor of the matchmaking agency where I essentially lived around the clock.

Nina Smith, my best friend who was also a high school classmate, worked at a nightclub. She knew many wealthy individuals. She introduced me to a prospect – a solitary son from a wealthy family who had passed away and was in search of a bride of suitable age.

I immediately accepted the proposition, hoping that once this deal was finalized, I could replace grandma's bulky old television with a sleek, modern LCD one.

I merrily went out for a bowl of hot and spicy soup. When I got back, it was already past seven. As the clock ticked closer to eight, my anticipation grew.

Right on cue, someone showed up.

It was a man in his fifties, impeccably dressed in a suit, wearing gold-framed glasses, his hair combed meticulously. He was the epitome of politeness.

“May I speak with Miss Nina Smith?” He asked.

It was the first time someone had addressed me so formally. I was taken aback. I responded, “Yes, you’ve found her, but you can simply call me Erica Taylor.”

“My surname is Bennet," he said, "You can call me Butler Bennet. The car is waiting outside. Miss Erica, if you please.”

Butler Bennet was extremely courteous, treating me as if I was a bona fide society lady.

Swallowing a gulp of nervousness, I followed him out the door.

A black Mercedes-Benz sedan was parked outside.

I got in, and Butler Bennet promptly told the driver to start the trip.