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“I’m sorry,” she said, composing herself. “For a moment I thought you said you wanted me to plan a wedding without a bride.”

“That’s exactly what I said.”

The laugh died. “You’re serious.”

“Completely.”

“Is this for a movie? A reality show?” She glanced around as if looking for hidden cameras. “Because I don’t do television. My contracts specifically exclude?—”

“This is not for entertainment purposes,” I assured her. “It’s a genuine wedding. I just need to work backward from the usual timeline.”

She crossed her arms, the notebook now forgotten. “You want me to plan a real wedding for you and a woman who doesn’t exist yet.”

“She exists,” I clarified. “I just haven’t met her. Or rather, I haven’t selected her yet.” I flashed another smile. “Though if this is your way of applying for the position, I’m certainly open to discussing?—”

“Finish that sentence and I’ll use this pen in ways that violate the Geneva Convention,” she cut in, her voice arctic.

I held up my hands in surrender, oddly delighted by her threat. “Just testing your professional boundaries. Consider me properly chastised.”

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 bother them with your little conundrum.” She extended her hand for a goodbye shake, her posture screaming ‘this meeting is over’ louder than if she’d brought 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.”

“You heard me out, so you’ll take the $5k,” I said, pulling out the envelope I had with the cash from the inside pocket of my jacket. I handed it to her, and she didn’t take it until I stepped forward and held it in front of her face. “I keep my word, Ms. Marcel. Let me keep it now.”

She narrowed her eyes at me, flicking her gaze to the envelope and back to my face twice before rolling her eyes and snatching the envelope.

“Fine.”

I smirked at her. “And my offer stands. In fact, let me sweeten it: nine million for the wedding budget, with a five hundred thousand planning fee for your company. Exclusive vendor rights. And full creative control within my parameters. It’ll be a wedding for you to brag about for years.”

Her eyes widened almost imperceptibly. For a normal wedding planning business, that was life-changing money. The kind of money that could turn a cute Chelsea office into a Manhattan empire.

“Mr. Burkhardt?—”

“Callan,” I corrected.

“Mr. Burkhardt,” she repeated. “No amount of money changes the fundamental problem. You’re asking me to plan a wedding for a relationship that doesn’t exist.”

“Yet,” I added. “Doesn’t exist yet. Think of it as extremely proactive planning.”

“Good night,” she said, turning toward the elevator. “And good luck with your search.”

I watched her walk away, noting with appreciation how perfectly her skirt emphasized the gentle sway of her hips.

The elevator doors closed behind her, and I smiled at the empty space where she’d stood.

Erika’s voice came through the intercom. “Should I compile a list of alternative wedding planners for tomorrow?”

“No,” I replied, finishing my scotch in one unnecessarily dramatic gulp. “I want her.”

“She seemed quite firm in her refusal, sir.”

“Everyone has a price, Erika.”

“With respect, sir, some people have principles.”

I set down my glass with more force than necessary. “Then I’ll just have to appeal to something besides her financial interests.”

“Such as?”

“I’m not sure yet.” I checked my watch. Nearly midnight. “But I’ll start by finding out everything there is to know about Anica Marcel and her business. Schedule a breakfast delivery to her office tomorrow. Something impressive. And have the car ready at eight.”

“May I remind you that you have the Tokyo investor call at nine?”

“Reschedule it.”

A pause. “They’ve already rescheduled twice.”

“Then they’re used to it,” I replied. “This is more important.”

“A wedding planner is more important than a hundred-million-dollar investment deal?”

I grinned at the exasperation in her voice. “The right wedding planner is. And Anica Marcel is the right one.”

“Because she said no,” Erika sighed, not bothering to make it a question.

“Exactly.” I walked back to the window, surveying the city. “She said no to me, Erika. When was the last time that happened?”

“Tuesday, sir. When you asked if I would water your office plants while you were in Aspen.”

“That doesn’t count. You’re practically family.”

“If you say so, sir. But might I suggest that your sudden interest in Ms. Marcel has less to do with her wedding planning abilities and more to do with how she looks in that pencil skirt?”

“I’m wounded by your insinuation,” I replied, not wounded in the slightest. “This is purely professional.”

“Of course it is, sir. Just like that yacht you bought last year was ‘purely for business meetings.’”

“It was! We closed the Singapore deal on that yacht.”

“After you renamed it ‘The Billion-Heir.’”

I waved dismissively. “Details. Focus on the task at hand: Operation Wedding Planner.”

“We’re not calling it that,” she said flatly.

“Operation Bride Hunt?”

“Worse.”

“Operation ‘I Do’ Or Die?”

“I’m hanging up now, sir.”

I spent the next hour having Erika pull every article, social media post, and business review about Knot Your Average Wedding and its principal planner.

The more I learned, the more convinced I became that Anica Marcel was exactly who I needed.

Someone with impeccable taste, a spotless professional reputation, and a spine of steel.

The fact that she was gorgeous and looked at me like I was a problem to be solved rather than a prize to be won? That was just a bonus. A distracting, intriguing bonus that had absolutely nothing to do with my professional interest in her services.

I’d always enjoyed a challenge. And Anica Marcel had just become my favorite kind of challenge. One I fully intended to win.

After all, I hadn’t built a tech empire by taking no for an answer.

And I certainly hadn’t made billions by giving up after the first rejection.

Or by ignoring excellent pencil skirts.