I stare at them.
They stare back.
"You want me to seduce a stranger," I say carefully, "at a luxury resort, in front of wedding guests, to prove he's a cheater."
"Yes."
"And you think this will work because…?"
"You're pretty. You're not in our circle, so he won't recognize you. You do this kind of work for a living."
"I'm a fixer," I correct. "I solve problems. I've tracked down stolen property. I've located birth parents. I once spent three days proving a woman's husband was faking a disability claim by photographing him at a CrossFit gym."
"So you're experienced in covert operations," Merritt says.
"That's different from what you're asking," I reply.
"We'll pay you fifty thousand dollars."
The number lands in my chest like a punch.
Fifty-Freaking-K.
I don't move. Don't blink. Don't let them see that I stopped breathing approximately four seconds ago.
Fifty thousand dollars would pay off the business loan I took out when I thoughtJane of All Serviceswould actually be profitable.
It would cover Grace's spring tuition and her housing deposit.
It would fix the leak in my apartment ceiling that's been dripping into a bucket since October.
It would mean I could buy groceries without mentally calculating whether I can afford both vegetables and protein in the same week.
Fifty thousand dollars is life-changing money.
It's also completely insane.
"That's generous," I say, and my voice sounds normal—Calm. Like I'm not doing franticmental math about monthly payments and interest rates.
“But I have rules," I say. "Three of them, actually. No danger. No messing with true love. No legal trouble."
Barbie tilts her head. "This doesn't violate any of those."
"It violatesallof them," I counter. "Seducing someone at a wedding? That's a lawsuit waiting to happen. And if your friend loves him—"
"He'scheatingon her," Merritt interrupts. "You'd be saving her from a lie, not breaking up true love."
"Why me?" I frown. "There are agencies that specialize in this. Private investigators with actual credentials."
"We contacted three agencies," Sloane says. "All of them recognized Blake's name and refused the job. His family has reach. No one wants to cross Hartwell & Cross."
"But you're small," Merritt says, and it's not an insult. It's just a fact. "You're not part of the established investigative network. You're off the radar. Blake won't see you coming."
"And if he asks who I am?" I counter. "If he wants to know why I'm at the wedding?"
"You'll be my plus-one," Barbie says. "I’d RSVP for two but I just broke up with my boyfriend. I’ll say you’re a friend from college, just hanging out with me for moral support and beach cocktails.”
"I don't exactly blend in at billionaire weddings," I point out. "I'm not—" I gesture at them, their coordinated neutrals and their art-gallery posture. "I don't have the wardrobe for this."
