Married to the Billionaire Mafia Don

"Thanks," Ivy said as she accepted the wrinkled dollar bills from the woman standing at the doorway.

"Do you need me to come over tomorrow?" she asked hopefully.

"I'll let you know," the woman said sourly before stepping back into her apartment and slamming the door shut.

"Weirdo," Ivy mumbled and walked away.

Ivy Wesley had learned three things the hard way: trust no one, smile only when necessary, and always sleep with one eye open.

She moved like a shadow through the cracked sidewalks of South Haven, the dim glow of the streetlamps casting her silhouette in uneven shapes against the graffitied brick walls. She folded the cash in her hand and shoved it into her coat. It was her payment for the half-day gig of babysitting. The mother hadn't smiled once and had paid her in crumpled fives as usual.

Ivy didn't mind. It was money, and money was freedom. At least, that's what she kept telling herself.

She tucked the money deep inside the pocket of her threadbare denim jacket and picked up her pace. Her boots - black, scuffed, and two sizes too big, crunched gravel as she crossed a narrow alley, the familiar smell of fried grease and garbage wafting from a nearby diner.

Home, if you could call it that, was two miles away in a trailer park. It was a shared apartment with peeling wallpaper, broken blinds, and a heater that made noise but didn't work. Her room was the size of a jail cell and painted in a color that tried to be beige but failed.

The wind cut through her jacket like a blade, making her shiver. She briefly considered stopping by Bobby's Deli for a cup of hot water. She knew the guy who worked the late shift, but her phone buzzed in her pocket.

Unknown Number.

Ivy paused under the awning of a closed tattoo parlor and answered without thinking.

"Yeah?"

A woman's voice, smooth and businesslike, responded. "Hi. Is this Ivy Wesley?"

Ivy's guard immediately went up. "Who's asking?"

"We got your contact from a freelance database. Are you available for short-term work?"

"I might be," Ivy responded guardedly. "What kind of work?"

"There's a private event tomorrow evening at an upscale venue. You'd be paid just for attending. It would only be three hours, and you'll be paid five hundred dollars cash."

Ivy blinked. "Say that again?"

"Five hundred," the voice repeated calmly. "Transportation will be provided. All you have to do is show up, follow instructions, and behave appropriately. It's an audition of sorts. You'll be evaluated with other candidates. No obligations unless you're selected."

"What kind of audition?" Ivy asked.

A pause.

"Let's just say... social compatibility is being tested," the woman said vaguely. "It's exclusive. Discretion is required."

Ivy glanced down the street, watching a man push a shopping cart full of empty cans. Her gut twisted. Sketchy didn't even begin to cover this, but then again, sketchy was her middle name. And five