Mother’s phone pings with a notification, and I watch as her face twists with fury.
“That smug little bitch,” she mutters.
“Did someone else take the lead for the cleanest crime scene?” I ask.
And yes, that is an actual competition that my mother has won two years out of eight.
“If only that were it. Augusta Halbeck has just announced her engagement.”
My brow pinches in confusion. “She hasn’t taken a mark in ten years, after she offed that billionaire…”
“And she doesn’t have to. This is her way of boasting.”
“How juicy?”
“Oh, he’s ripe. Nearing seventy, but still has all his hair and teeth. Hedge funds, real estate, a hint of royal blood.”
“Have you considered taking a mark?” I ask.
“You know damn well I can’t,” she huffs.
“Things change. It’s been a while since you’ve been active, and a lot of distance has been put between you and your last husband.”
“Tell that to the recluse,” she says under her breath.
My phone vibrates with a call from Miss May.
“Is it her?” Mother’s green eyes practically beg for it to be.
I nod as I hitaccept.
“Hello, Miss May! It’s good to hear from you,” I say with a measured amount of enthusiasm.
“Dear Ivy, I hope you’ve been well. Forgive me, I don’t have much time, but I wanted to tell you that a gentleman is interested in connecting with you tonight. Would you be available for a video chat at 5 p.m.?”
“I will make myself available. Will I be told who he is ahead of time?”
“I’ll be forwarding his profile and a short message from him after I hang up. The gentleman is…transactional. Exactly what you’re looking for…and don’t be surprised if it ruffles your mother’s feathers.”
Glancing at my mom, I say, “Thank you.”
“Good luck,” Miss May says before disconnecting the line.
“Well?” Mother is hovering over my shoulder, excited to find out who I’ve been matched with.
An email pops up and I click into the link provided.
I’m looking to expedite a marriage in order to produce an heir to my family’s legacy line. If you’re interested in living comfortably whilst having no real control over your life, I’d love to move forward with the process by week’s end.
I suck in a breath, but it does little to help the queasy feeling roiling my stomach.
“Short, rigid, to-the-point,” I finally say.
“It’s almost too good to be true,” Momma says. “Click on his profile.”
“I think I’ll take it from here,” I tell her.
Eyes me suspiciously, she says, “Click-on-his-pro-file!”, enunciating each syllable sharply.
