Page 9 of Billionaire Grump

Damn my very capable assistant and her determination to not let me go AWOL.

I tried to get out of the wedding when Blake first called me. Not because he’s not a good friend. He is. We met back at Harvard Business School and we’ve stayed in touch ever since.

He called me a while back and asked if I’d be his best man. I told him I was busy but he railroaded me into it and I finally relented.

As a general rule, I try to avoid obligatory formal social occasions. I live my life in a suit. Wearing a tux on the weekend is hardly my idea of a good time.

I also found out—after I’d already agreed to be in the wedding—that Margot Russo is the wedding planner.

I hate weddings on the best of days. I hate weddings planned by Margot with a feral fucking passion.

Margot happens to be one of the most sought-after wedding planners in New York. She’s also my ex. She’s also batshit crazy.

I have no idea why I “dated” her for almost six weeks. I’m usually more of a one-night stand kind of guy. It was almost more of a case of trying to placate a lunatic than it was about wanting to spend time with her.

I tried to feel something. I tried to make an effort, because it’s what people do. They date. They have relationships. They think about settling down when they’re staring down the barrel of turning thirty.

We met at one of Leah’s dinners, around nine or ten months ago. She asked for my number and I gave it to her. We had things in common. We understood each other’s grueling schedules.

The problem was, I never felt anything. No attachment. No excitement. No passion.

Nada. Zero. Zilch.

For me, the whole thing was tedious as fuck.

For her, it was a dream come true.

I waited for something—anyfuckingthing—to kick in. I expected my feelings would grow over time, if I just stuck with it for a while and gave it a chance to evolve. In the end I got tired of forcing something that just couldn’t be forced.

Her life revolves around making people believe that the only way to guarantee a happily ever after is by spending obscene amounts of money on floral arrangements and coordinated table linens. And of course, diamonds.

Everything about her is wired to show off. The restaurants she wanted me to take her to had to be trending. The jewelry she wanted me to buy her was worn by celebrities on their social media.

If we could have approached our relationship from a place of let’s-talk-about-how-we-both-feel instead of you’ve-wronged-me-on-a-million-levels-you-unfeeling-asshole, maybe we would have had a chance. As it was, everything I did offended her.

She started dropping hints about marriage. She half-joked she’d booked us into some ultra-exclusive hotel for our wedding, claiming there’d been a last-minute cancellation. I dodged the topic until I got an email from the event coordinator congratulating us on our engagement and asking when we were free to come in to discuss details.

I broke it off the next day.

Margot did not take the break-up well. To put it mildly. She cried for five minutes and she’s been screaming ever since, about how heartless I am, how I’m cold and indifferent and completely incapable of love.

Which, unfortunately, is all true.

She obsessively begged me to take her back, showing up at places she’d heard through the grapevine I might be. Calling. Generally acting unhinged and borderline psycho. Until I blocked her number and gave strict instructions to the doormen both in my apartment building and at work that she’s no longer welcome.

She knows I’m still single, which is part of her problem. She insisted in one of her notes, I’m better than nothing!!

Actually, no.

I suggested to Blake that he consider hiring a different wedding planner, but apparently his fiancée Leah’s mind was made up.

This wedding will be a test of my patience, at the very least. More likely it’ll be two days of pure hell. I’m expected not only to attend the wedding on Saturday, but also be at both the rehearsal dinner on Friday night and the send-off on Sunday morning.

It’s going to be a very long weekend.

As if confronting Margot wasn’t bad enough, she isn’t the only woman from my past who will be at this wedding.

Blake is a hedge fund manager and Leah is an interior designer who’s constantly trying to set me up with her very large circle of friends. They throw a lot of parties and events, inviting select members of the cream of the Manhattan glitterati crop, which they insist I’m part of.