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, which were 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 hundred dollars could do many things for her. 

“Text me the address,” she said finally.

The voice on the other end gave a short, satisfied hum. “You’ll receive a package shortly. It will include your wardrobe, instructions, and a nondisclosure agreement. Sign it, show up, and be on time.”

Then the line went dead.

---------------

The next day, the package arrived at noon in an unmarked black car. The driver didn’t speak. He just handed Ivy a slim box and left without a word. 

She took the box to the shared kitchen in the tiny house, ignoring the raised eyebrows of her two flatmates, whom she rarely communicated with.

Inside the box: a black cocktail dress, sleek and low-cut with a slit up the thigh. High heels that looked like they belonged to someone who didn’t walk much. And a note. 

Ivy opened it and read the content: “You’ve been selected for consideration. Be at the following address by 7:00 p.m. sharp. Be silent. Be seen. Not a word to anyone.”

Underneath that, there was a second envelope, this one thinner, with a simple NDA. Ivy read it twice. It was legal, binding. It also didn’t explain much. She signed it anyway.

By six, Ivy had squeezed herself into the dress and run a flat iron through her shoulder-length auburn hair. She applied just enough makeup to look put together, but not so much that she looked like she was trying too hard.

She didn’t own perfume, so she used coconut lotion from a free sample pack. The heels were foreign territory, but she could handle three hours. Probably.

At 6:30, the same black car rolled up. This time, the driver opened the door for her. Ivy slid inside without a word.

---------------

The mansion looked like something off the front of a luxury lifestyle magazine. Tuscan-inspired stonework, wrought-iron gates, and ivy curling around marble columns. Torches, actual torches, lined the driveway, and the air smelled faintly of citrus and sandalwood. Classical music floated through hidden speakers tucked behind flowering hedges.

Ivy stepped out of the car, clutching a small clutch purse with only her phone in it. Other women were arriving, each more glamorous than the last. Long legs, glossy hair, and designer dresses that screamed money.

Ivy didn’t know whether to laugh or be impressed. They were ushered through arched double doors into a grand marble foyer. Crystal chandeliers sparkled above. A double staircase curved up into shadows. Everything gleamed as if it had never been touched by human hands.

About thirty women stood in the room now. Ivy hovered near the back, watching. Some looked nervous. Others were already whispering to each other, comparing notes. A tall blonde in red heels was practicing her smile in a mirror.

Then a man appeared. Ivy assumed he was the butler. He had silver-streaked hair, a face that looked carved from stone, and a voice like silk.

“Ladies,” he began, “thank you for coming. You’ve been selected for your appearance, poise, and potential compatibility. Tonight is not a job interview. This is an opportunity to change your life.”

The room fell silent.

“You will be evaluated on grace, discretion, and how you carry yourself under pressure,” the butler continued. “The gentleman hosting this evening is of considerable wealth and influence. Should he choose you, you will be offered marriage. Nothing less.”

Ivy felt the words marriage and wealth knock together like billiard balls in her head. She didn’t belong here. But she stayed.

“You’ll each be interviewed. There will be no names exchanged tonight. Do not ask questions. Do not speak unless spoken to. If this is not for you, now is your time to leave.”

A few women shuffled nervously. One, then two, turned and left through the front doors.

Ivy stood still. Not because she was convinced, but because she was curious. And desperate.

She hadn’t come here to find love. She didn’t believe in fairy tales. But five hundred dollars tonight, and maybe more after that, could get her out of this city. Maybe even out of this life.

A clipboard was passed around. Each woman signed her name. No questions. Ivy hesitated only a second before scribbling hers in black ink.

They were separated into smaller groups and led through various wings of the mansion. Ivy’s group ended up in a candlelit salon where a man in a black suit offered champagne. She declined.

Instead, she scanned the room, noting details. Cameras, mirrors, vases she could probably sell for thousands. There was money here — real money. Old money. Not just flashy cars and diamond watches.

“Miss Wesley,” the butler reappeared, beckoning her toward a side door. “You’re wanted in the west wing.”

With her heart racing, Ivy followed him without a word.