Her eyebrows shot up. “’Selected’? Are you running some sort of dystopian dating competition? The Bachelor: Billionaire Edition?”
“Nothing so dramatic.” I moved to the window, gesturing for her to join me. After a moment’s hesitation, she did, though she maintained a careful distance that suggested she was calculating the trajectory needed to push me through the glass if necessary. “Do you see that building there? The Binx Tower?”
She nodded.
“Three of my closest friends work there. We met at Stanford, started our first businesses together, have been competing ever since.” I turned to face her. “Two are married. One’s engaged. And several months ago, over drinks significantly less fancy than this one, they bet me 10 million dollars each that I couldn’t commit to marriage.”
That wasn’t the whole story, of course. The bet had actually started as a drunken argument about whether true love existed at all. Chance, happily married for five years, insisted it did. Kris, cynically married for tax purposes, argued it was a chemical delusion. Morgan, nervously engaged and second-guessing everything, had been caught in the middle.
And I had declared the entire concept a myth perpetuated by greeting card companies and jewelry stores right before betting millions of dollars that I could get married without falling victim to the delusion myself.
“So this is about a bet,” she said flatly.
“This is about proving a point,” I corrected. “And yes, winning a bet. I never lose bets, Ms. Marcel. It’s a personal policy.”
“And the bride, this theoretical woman, she’s just... what? A prop in your game? A particularly expensive betting chip?”
Annoyance flickered in my chest. Most people didn’t question my motives. They just nodded and took my money. “She’ll be someone compatible. Someone looking for the same arrangement.”
“Arrangement,” she repeated, the word dripping with judgment like an ice cream cone in August.
“A mutually beneficial partnership,” I explained. “I’m not looking for love, Ms. Marcel. I’m looking for a practical union with someone who understands that marriage is ultimately a business arrangement with romantic window dressing.”
She set down her untouched water with a sharp click. “Marriage isn’t a business transaction, Mr. Burkhardt.”
“Historically, that’s exactly what it was,” I countered. “The modern notion of marrying for love is relatively recent. I’m simply being pragmatic. And honest. Unlike half the couples you plan weddings for who are probably already cheating or contemplating divorce before the cake is cut.”
“And the woman who agrees to this arrangement, she’ll know she was selected because you needed to win a bet?”
“She’ll know exactly what she’s getting into,” I assured her. “Transparency is important in any contract.”
“A contract,” she echoed. “How romantic.”
I smiled despite myself. “I’m not selling romance, Ms. Marcel. I’m offering honesty. Which is more than most marriages start with. Just ask my parents, who spent years in matrimonial purgatory before finally admitting they’d rather set each other on fire than spend another day together.”
She tucked her notebook back into her bag with movements that suggested she was imagining it was my face. “I appreciate your candor, Mr. Burkhardt, but I’ll have to decline. This isn’t the kind of event my company handles.”
That wasn’t the response I’d expected. People didn’t say no to me. Especially not when I was offering obscene amounts of money. That was like my whole thing. Rich guy offers money, people say yes. It was practically a law of physics.
“The fee would be triple your standard rate,” I reminded her. “Plus bonuses for discretion and expedited timeline. That’s enough to keep your cute little Chelsea office running for a little longer?”
“Money isn’t the issue.”
“Then what is?”
“Professional integrity,” she replied. “I plan weddings for people in love, or at least people who’ve met each other. Not bachelor billionaires trying to win bets.”
I studied her, intrigued by her refusal. Her principles were inconvenient but admittedly admirable. Like finding out your sports car doesn’t have cup holders; annoying but somehow making the whole package more impressive.
“I can find ten wedding planners by morning who’d kill for this job,” I said, watching for her reaction. “Possibly literally, given how cutthroat the wedding industry is.”
“Then I suggest you botherthemwith your little conundrum.” She extended her hand for a goodbye shake, her posture screaming ‘this meeting is over’ louder than if she’dbrought an actual megaphone. “Thank you for the consultation opportunity, but I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
I took her hand, but instead of shaking it, I held it a moment longer than necessary. Her skin was warm, her grip firm, and her expression suggested she was going to reach for hand sanitizer as soon as the elevator doors closed behind her.
“The consultation fee is still yours. Five thousand, as promised.”
“Keep it,” she said, withdrawing her hand like she was removing it from a particularly suspicious petting zoo animal. “Consider it a goodwill gesture from Knot Your Average Wedding.”
