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“Out,” I ordered, pointing to the door. “Both of you. I need five minutes of sanity before he arrives.”

“Fine, but remember—” Mari paused at the doorway, “—if you don’t climb that man like a tree soon, I will. And I’ll take detailed notes for posterity.”

I glanced at Devonna, expecting her to be horrified by Mari’s crassness, but she was nodding thoughtfully. “I’ve already prepared a mood board,” she admitted. “With categories for technique, duration, and... creativity.”

“Out!” I repeated, nearly shrieking.

Once alone, I surveyed the room with a critical eye. Was it too much? Probably. But Callan had made it clear he wanted results, and this was how I delivered results, with meticulous research, careful analysis, and an attention to detail that bordered on pathological.

The fact that the process had given me an encyclopedic knowledge of his preferences, habits, and history was purely professional.

The fact that I now knew he preferred brunettes who challenged him intellectually, donated to education-focused charities, and could hold their own in any social situation was simply due diligence.

The fact that I’d watched eighteen interviews with him to analyze his conversation patterns and humor style was thorough research.

And the fact that I’d caught myself wondering more than once what it would be like to be the woman who actually captured his interest? That was... a professional hazard. Nothing more.

I was adjusting the last profile when the conference room door swung open, revealing the man himself an hour early, defying even Devonna’s calculations.

Callan leaned against the doorframe, taking in the scene with raised eyebrows.

He wore dark jeans and a navy cashmere sweater, his hair slightly rumpled as if he’d been running his hands through it.

He looked like he’d just walked off a “Billionaires at Leisure” photoshoot and directly into my increasingly complicated fantasy life.

“Should I be flattered or terrified?” he asked, gesturing to the walls. “This is either the most thorough dating service I’ve ever seen or the beginnings of a true crime documentary. ‘The Wedding Planner: From Bouquets to Body Bags.’”

“That seems to be the consensus,” I replied, refusing to show how his sudden appearance had flustered me. “Though I was hoping for ‘impressed.’”

“Oh, I’m definitely impressed,” he said, stepping fully into the room and closing the door behind him. “This is next-level organization. I’m pretty sure my security team doesn’t have this much intel on potential threats.”

“Some might say a wife is the ultimate security threat,” I quipped, immediately regretting the joke when his eyes crinkled with amusement.

“Speaking from experience, Ms. Marcel?” He approached the wall, studying the photos and notes with genuine interest. “Or is this a warning?”

“Neither. Just an observation based on the dozens of mother-in-law horror stories I’ve collected over the years.

” I moved to stand beside him, careful to maintain a professional distance.

“I’ve narrowed it down to thirty candidates who meet your basic criteria, with a top ten I’d recommend for initial meetings. ”

He studied the wall in silence for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he turned to me with that infuriating half-smile. “You’ve categorized these women all wrong.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Your categories,” he gestured to my organized wall. “They’re all wrong.”

After a week of sixteen-hour days, background checks, and enough coffee to give a rhino heart palpitations, that was not what I wanted to hear.

“Well, you categorized your ‘non-negotiables’ as—and I quote—‘nice rack’ and ‘doesn’t talk during sports,’” I replied, crossing my arms. “So forgive me if I took some interpretive liberties.”

To my surprise, he laughed. “Fair point. My initial criteria were... superficial.”

“Superficial is putting it kindly. Neanderthalic would be more accurate. Though I notice you haven’t actually disagreed with those particular requirements.”

“Would it help if I said I’ve evolved since then?” He moved closer to the board, examining the details I’d compiled. “Though evolution apparently means being matched with Manhattan’s most polished gold-diggers.”

“These women are accomplished professionals,” I corrected. “CEOs, attorneys, philanthropists?—”

“Who are conveniently single and open to marrying a billionaire on short notice,” he finished. “Come on, Anica. You’re smarter than this.”

The casual use of my first name sent an unwelcome tingle down my spine. “It’s Ms. Marcel. And given your parameters, these are the most suitable candidates. Unless you’ve decided to modify your requirements?”

He turned to face me. “I’m adding a new parameter: authenticity.”

“Authenticity,” I repeated flatly. “That’s rather vague for a man who specifically requested, and again I quote, ‘ass you could bounce a quarter off of.’”

“I’m a complex man with evolving standards,” he replied with that smirk that made me want to either slap him or... other things I absolutely should not have been considering. “I want someone real. Someone who sees me as more than a bank account with abs.”

“So you want a unicorn,” I translated. “A beautiful, accomplished woman who doesn’t care about your money, is willing to enter a marriage of convenience in less than three months, and has the patience of a saint to deal with your ego.”

“Precisely,” he agreed cheerfully. “I knew you understood me.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose, feeling a headache forming. “Mr. Burkhardt?—”

“Callan,” he corrected.

“Mr. Burkhardt,” I repeated. “Finding someone who matches all your criteria was already like searching for a needle in a haystack. Adding ‘doesn’t care about your billions’ is like specifying the needle must also be made of cheese.”

“I love cheese. And I love challenges,” he said, stepping closer. “Don’t you?”

Before I could respond, his phone ran. He glanced at it and grinned. “Perfect timing. The peanut gallery wants to check in.”

Without waiting for my permission, he answered the video call and propped his phone against my whiteboard.

“Gentlemen,” he greeted the three faces that appeared on screen. “Meet my wedding planner and temporary fiancée, Anica Marcel.”

I froze, equal parts mortified and furious. “Temporary what now?”

The three men on screen erupted in varying expressions of surprise and amusement.

“Holy shit, you actually found someone?” said a dark-haired man with a perpetual smirk. “Did you have to pay extra for the ‘pretend to tolerate you’ package?”

“Ignore Kris,” said another man, this one with kind eyes and a relaxed demeanor. “He’s still bitter his wife implemented a swear jar. I’m Chance. Nice to meet you, Anica.”

“And I’m Morgan,” added the third, who looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks. “Are you actually marrying him? Blink twice if you’re being held against your will. We can send an extraction team.”

“She’s not actually marrying me,” Callan clarified, as I stood there trying to process the ambush. “She’s my wedding planner who’s helping me win our bet. Though we are temporarily engaged at the Rhodes Estate to secure the venue.”

“Trespassing into new territory of assholery, even for you,” Kris commented. “Impressive.”

“It’s strategic improvisation,’” Callan replied. “And it worked.”

I finally found my voice. “I’m not his fiancée,” I clarified. “I’m a professional who was coerced into a charade that I’m still considering legal action for.”

“She’s warming up to me,” Callan stage-whispered.

“Clearly. The murder in her eyes must just be how she shows affection,” Morgan said.

“So where are you in the process?” Chance asked, the only one who seemed actually interested in the bet rather than mocking Callan. “Found any potential brides yet?”

Callan gestured to my wall. “Anica has compiled the most comprehensive dating database in Manhattan. We’re reviewing candidates today.”

Kris leaned forward, squinting at the screen. “Is that... a murder wall of women? Are you sure you hired a wedding planner and not a very organized serial killer?”

“It’s a strategic visualization of potential matches,” I said, lifting my chin.

“Same thing,” Morgan quipped. “I’m concerned and impressed.”

“Just give us the stats,” Chance said. “How many candidates? What’s the timeline? I need to know if I should start shopping for a wedding gift or preparing my ‘I told you so’ speech.”

“Thirty candidates, ten front-runners, first meeting tonight,” Callan reported with the confidence of someone who hadn’t rejected my entire methodology five minutes earlier. “And you should definitely shop for a gift. Something expensive.”

“I still say it’s impossible,” Kris shook his head. “No sane woman would marry you knowing it’s for a bet.”

“You underestimate my charm,” Callan replied.

“And you underestimate women’s intelligence,” I muttered, earning a snort of laughter from Morgan.

“I like her,” he declared. “She sees through your bullshit.”

“Shouldn’t you be stress-vomiting about your own wedding instead of concerning yourself with mine?” Callan shot back.

Morgan’s face paled. “Just because I occasionally question if marriage is a societal construct designed to torture men doesn’t mean I’m not excited about my wedding.”

“He threw up twice during the menu tasting,” Kris informed us. “The chef thought it was a commentary on his cooking.”

“As fascinating as this fraternity reunion is,” I interrupted, “we have actual work to do. If you’ll excuse us...”

“She’s bossy,” Kris observed. “No wonder you hired her.”

“I hired her because she’s the best,” Callan said, with sincerity that momentarily caught me off guard. “And she’s right. We need to prep for tonight’s meeting.”

“Meeting with who?” Chance asked.

“Destiny Gitwieler,” I answered automatically. “Harvard Business School graduate, runs her family’s foundation, speaks four languages, and has been featured in Vogue’s ’30 Under 30’ list.”