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He took a sip of his tequila. “Greta had a personality. And look what happened.”
I said nothing, thinking of the woman who, eight months after our breakup, I still couldn’t quite let go. Greta Ann Granger. The initials alone should have told me what I was getting myself into. But I never saw it coming. All I saw was sheer perfection. I met her three years earlier at a fundraiser gala sponsored by our family’s charitable foundation. The cause at hand was special education, and Greta was a teacher at one of the city’s many underfunded schools. She gave the most beautiful speech I’d ever heard. She was smart, funny, educated, and she was absolutely devoted to the special-needs children in her care. By the end of the evening, I had pledged five million dollars from the Dunning Family Charitable Trust.
And I had fallen madly in like. After filling out my pledge paperwork, I asked Greta to join me for a drink, and we ended up talking until the wee hours of the morning. I couldn’t believe how much we had in common. We both loved the seaside on fall days. We both hated crowds and preferred the company of one good friend to a gala full of partygoers. We both wanted kids but were worried about the world we’d have to raise them in. The list went on and on. Two years later, I was down on one knee, and she was answering “Yes” before I’d even finished saying “Will you.”
And then I did the dumbest thing I’d ever done in my life: I followed my father’s advice and asked Greta to sign a prenup.
She was gone before I woke up the next day. I spent the next five months in a state of constant regret, telling myself Greta had left because I’d hurt her, because I’d suggested her love for me wasn’t genuine. Because while she’d been on the phone all day with caterers and florists and banquet halls planning for the wedding, I’d been on the phone all day with lawyers and estate managers planning for the divorce.
For months, I wished I could turn back the clock and undo the damage I’d done by asking for that stupid prenup. But then I heard she was engaged again, and her new fiancé was Lincoln Reynolds, the one and only unmarried son in Manhattan who stood to inherit more money than me. It was when I heard the details of their “chance” meeting that I realized what a fool I’d been. Wouldn’t you know it, Greta met Lincoln at a fundraiser gala. Turned out she went to lots and lots of fundraisers. Because you know who you find by the yachtload at gala fundraisers? Millionaires. Billionaires. And their single, eligible sons.
In retrospect, she must have seen me coming a mile away. I was the well-known lonely only son of one of New York City’s most successful businessmen. And talk about low-hanging fruit. Ever since the mother I adored died when I was thirteen, I’d more or less walked through life with the words “single and desperate for the love of a good woman” tattooed on my forehead. So for someone like me to meet someone like Greta? A woman who spent her days teaching the neediest of children, and her nights bouncing from gala to gala nobly raising money for their educations? She was my dream come true. And for Greta to meet a desperate sucker like me? I was her dream come true.
I knew that I’d been had. And Dad knew that I knew it. But if I had inherited just one characteristic from my father, it was stubborn pride. I was willing to admit to myself that Greta was a gold digger, but that didn’t mean I had to admit it to him.
Dad nudged me with his elbow. “Take another look at her,” he said, nodding to the redhead whose boobs had triggered this whole awful conversation. “Tall. Stacked. Gorgeous from head to toe. That’s the kind of woman you want at your side whenForbesis taking your picture. That’s the kind of woman who will get you places in this world.”
“You’re saying I should find myself a trophy wife?”
“No,” he said. “I’m saying there are two kinds of women in this world. Pretty bitches and ugly bitches. Both will be more interested in the divorce settlement than they will be in the marriage, so you may as well marry the one with the blondest hair and the biggest boobs. If possible, get one with blue eyes. And make sure she’s at least fried fish upon a derby.”
“Make sure she’swhat?”
Dad came in close and spoke loudly into my left ear. “At least five six and under thirty!” He pulled back and reverted to a normal voice. “What did you think I said?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Bullshit. Have you made an appointment with an audiologist yet? I’m getting sick of having to repeat everything I say.”
“I’m only thirty years old,” I said. “I don’t need a hearing aid. Yet.”
“Stop fighting it, son. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Your mother started wearing hers when she was fourteen and she was never embarrassed about it.”
I swallowed the rest of my ginger ale and gestured to the bartender for the check before my father had a chance to say another word about my departed mother. As far as I was concerned, there were certain topics of conversation that were off-limits to him, and she was one of them.
“Leaving so soon?” Dad said.
I held up my phone. “It’s ten o’clock. Our hour’s up.”
We stood and gave each other a sterile hug.
“Love you, son.”
“Love you, Dad.”
It was a beautiful May night. If I weren’t so depressed, I’d have gone for a nice long walk. But all I wanted to do was get home, climb under the covers, and completely forget the conversation I’d just had with my damned father.
But I couldn’t. And it wasn’t just about Greta. It was about Megan. And Ilsa. And every other woman I’d stupidly believed cared about me, only to find out she only cared about my money. Correction. Cared about my father’s money. I wasn’t the billionaire. I was just the billionaire’s son. Take Dad out of the picture, and I was just a lowly software developer who earned a few hundred thousand a year and had maybe ten mill in inherited assets.
But thanks to my media whore of a father, everyone who followed the Manhattan social scene knew about the incredible wealth I stood to inherit. As I walked down the block to my car, Dad’s words about the kind of woman a man like me was doomed to attract played over and over again in my head.They’ll be more interested in the divorce settlement than they will be in the marriage.I didn’t agree that all women were bitches who only cared about money, but historically the women I attracted certainly fit the profile. By virtue of lineage, I was automatically prey for the most manipulative of predators, and the number of female con artists I’d been roped in by stood at three. How many other brilliant actresses were out there waiting to reel me in like a fish and make a complete fool of me? Maybe Dad was right. If all women wanted from me was money, maybe Ishouldgo for the trophy. Maybe I should just chase after big-bosomed, blue-eyed babes who knew how to smile for the photographers atForbes.
As I was pondering the possibility of spending the rest of my life with someone endowed with two enormous jugs but not a single brain cell, I spotted my car. Pulling my keys out of my pocket, I clicked the unlock button on my keychain.
But I didn’t hear the usual beep-beep. Sonofabitch. I’d left the doors unlocked on the New York City streetsagain. The whole reason I traded in my hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar Mercedes for an older, inconspicuous Toyota was so that I wouldn’t attract gold diggers. But in place of the gold diggers, I was going to attract car thieves. I should just start leaving my keys in the ignition to make their jobs easier.
I walked over to the driver’s side and pulled the handle. But no sooner had I opened the door than I noticed something unusual.
High heels. Ripped black fishnet stockings. A skintight miniskirt and equally skintight red blouse. And a head of blond hair face down on my steering wheel.
