My "Date for Hire" is Actually My Billionaire Boss

At six‑thirty in the morning, before the alarm even went off, Ava was already awake. Or rather, she hadn't really slept at all. The water pipes hummed inside the walls, like some kind of mournful wail. She got up quietly, trying not to make any noise, and walked to the tiny “bedroom” area separated by a cloth curtain. Four‑year‑old Lily was still curled under the old blanket, her little face flushed with sleep.

Ava watched her for a few seconds, kissed her forehead gently, then turned to the kitchen—really just a corner of the room with a single‑burner induction cooktop and a small fridge. She took out the last two slices of bread from the cupboard. They were a bit stale. Carefully, she trimmed off the slightly hard edges with a knife, then placed the slices into a secondhand bear‑shaped toaster with most of its paint worn off.

Ding. The bread popped up, giving off a faint, slightly toasted aroma. She spread a thin layer of margarine on them, then scraped the last small spoonful of strawberry jam from a nearly empty jar, smoothing it evenly over the bread. Then she cut the sandwich diagonally and arranged it on a plate printed with little flowers.

“Lily, sweetie, time to wake up. The sun's already up, you know.” She walked back to the bed, her voice dripping with tenderness.

Lily mumbled, rolled over, and sat up, rubbing her eyes. “Mama… morning.”

“Good morning, my little princess. Look, Mama made your favorite bear toast!” Ava held the plate up to her with feigned surprise.

Lily’s eyes lit up. She grabbed a piece. “Thank you, Mama!” She took a bite, leaving pink jam on the corners of her mouth.

Ava watched her eat. Her own stomach ached from hunger and caffeine (she had only made half a packet of instant coffee, diluted with a large cup of hot water). When Lily finished one slice and left the other on the plate, shaking her head and saying, “Lily’s full,” Ava carefully wrapped the remaining bread in plastic wrap and tucked it into her worn canvas bag. That would be her lunch.

“Mama has to go to work. Mrs. Jones will come get you and take you to daycare, okay?” Ava said as she quickly dressed Lily in a clean but slightly frayed onesie.

“Will Mama come home early tonight?”

“I’ll try, sweetheart.” She touched Lily’s head, calculating in her mind. Her supermarket shift ended at nine. If she was lucky enough to pick up an extra hour of cleaning work, she might not be home until ten‑thirty. But she didn’t say that. “Be good for Mrs. Jones and your teacher.”

After dropping Lily off at the neighbor’s and paying her share of the week’s tight daycare fee, Ava hurried downstairs to catch the bus. Passing through the ground floor, she glanced automatically at the row of rusty metal mailboxes, each marked with an apartment number. Hers, 16B, had a crooked door that didn’t close properly. Usually it held only bills and flyers.

But today, among the supermarket circulars and red utility overdue notices, a cream‑colored, stiff paper corner stood out.

She frowned, fished out her key, and opened the crooked little door. An envelope slid out. Not ordinary mail—a square envelope, thick, with a faint perfume scent. The seal was embossed with elegant gold cursive: Ava Reynolds.

Who would send something like this to Ava Reynolds in 16B?

Her heart sank with a sense of foreboding. She slit the envelope open with her fingernail. A folded, equally thick and elegant card slipped out. In the center was printed handwritten script:

You are cordially invited to share in our joy.

Michael Richardson & Jennifer Campbell

Celebration of their Engagement

Location: Oak Ridge Country Club

Dress: Formal Attire Required

Below was the date, time, and a small line: RSVP. The closing read: The Richardson and Campbell Families.

Michael. Her cousin—the son of a distant aunt on her mother’s side. Oak Ridge Country Club. Formal attire.

Ava stared at the line Formal Attire Required, feeling the edges of the card cut her fingers like blades. She shoved the invitation back into the envelope, then stuffed it deep into the mailbox among the bills and flyers, as if it were something filthy. Out of sight, out of mind.

The day passed in the mechanical labor of cashiering and stocking shelves at the supermarket. At eight in the evening, she dragged her leaden legs back to the apartment. With the last of her energy, she bathed Lily and read her a bedtime story. After Lily fell asleep, she turned to the pile of laundry in the corner—she needed to wash it before Mrs. Jones came tomorrow. The coin‑operated washer meant another expense.

Then her phone rang. The name on the screen made her heart sink: Aunt Martha. Michael’s mother.

She stared at the screen until the ringing was about to stop. Then she took a deep breath, pressed answer, and forced her voice to sound normal. “Hello, Aunt Martha?”

“Oh, Ava, dear, you got the call! Wonderful, I was afraid you’d be too busy to see it.” Aunt Martha’s voice came through the receiver, syrupy sweet with practiced concern.

“The invitation? Yes, I saw it this morning.” Ava held the phone between her shoulder and ear as she sorted laundry, separating whites from darks.

“Great! You’ll come, won’t you? Michael and Jennifer especially want you there. Jennifer—oh, she’s a lovely girl, her family’s in medical devices, you know. They’re just perfect together.” Aunt Martha paused, her tone becoming more “intimate.” “Honestly, Ava, occasions like this are good for you, too. You’re always shut up in that little apartment, wrapped up in your child. That won’t do. You need to get out, see people. Maybe… meet a nice man?”

Ava’s hands stopped sorting.

“I know it’s not easy raising a child alone,” Aunt Martha’s voice continued, coating her like sticky syrup. “But you’re still young. You have to think about the future. Lily needs a father figure, don’t you think? This party is a great opportunity. There will be decent people there. You should dress up. No more of those… well, old clothes. Do you need me to lend you a dress? I have some from the last charity gala. They’re a bit out of season, but the fabric is still nice…”

“No, thank you, Aunt Martha.” Ava cut her off, her voice stiff. “I appreciate the offer. I’ll… think about it.”

“Think about it? Oh, dear, don’t think—just come! Everyone wants to see you. All these years, you’ve always been alone. It’s so sad. Besides, if you don’t come, people might think our family isn’t close. Do it for the family’s reputation, alright?” Aunt Martha’s tone carried a hint of unyielding pressure.

“I said I’ll think about it.” Ava repeated, her fingers unconsciously twisting one of Lily’s old T‑shirts.

“Oh, fine. You’re so stubborn.” Aunt Martha sounded a little displeased, but quickly adjusted her tone. “Just remember to RSVP early. If you need a date… well, it might be a little short notice. But coming alone is fine, though you might… stand out a bit. You know. Anyway, be sure to come! Bye, dear!”

The line went dead.

The busy signal droned in Ava’s ear, unnaturally loud in the suddenly silent apartment. She still held the phone to her ear, her shoulders rigid. Decent people. Lend you a dress. A date. Stand out. For the family’s reputation.

Each word was a needle, stabbing precisely into her already battered pride. She slid slowly to the cold floor, surrounded by the unfinished laundry. Anger bubbled in her chest like boiling asphalt, searing her throat. She wanted to scream, to smash something, to shout into the phone.

But she didn’t. She just sat there, motionless, until the hot anger, cooled by harsh reality and exhaustion, slowly died, replaced by a deeper, suffocating numbness and cold. She looked around. Peeling paint, creaky old furniture, Lily’s toys in the corner, a half‑dead potted plant on the windowsill. This was her whole world. And that invitation, that phone call, that glamorous Oak Ridge Country Club—it was another planet.

Her gaze fell on the nightstand. On it sat a small, handmade clay piggy bank—a grinning pig. It was Lily’s Mother’s Day gift from daycare. Beside it lay a thin, ordinary envelope. Inside was the money she had been saving for months, her “emergency fund” she had never dared to touch. Three hundred and twenty‑seven dollars. It was her last safety net—in case Lily got sick, or she suddenly lost her job.

She turned to look at the small lump under the curtain. Lily was sleeping soundly, her little chest rising and falling rhythmically.

“Decent people… coming alone… you might stand out…” Aunt Martha’s voice seemed to echo in her ears again.

A cold, almost numb resolve replaced the anger and helplessness. She had had enough. Enough of pity, enough of charity, enough of being treated like a defective item that needed careful handling at every family gathering. Enough of Lily being asked why she didn’t have a father.

She didn’t want to be “alone” anymore. She didn’t want to “stand out.”

She stared at the envelope of emergency cash for a long time. Then, almost stumbling, she stood up and walked to the rickety secondhand desk on the other side of the room. She opened her old laptop. The fan whirred, the screen flickered a few times before lighting up.

In the search bar, with trembling fingers, she typed letter by letter: rent a date companion service.

The page loaded with many links, some with suggestive images and words. Her heart pounded, her fingers cold. She clicked on one that looked relatively “legitimate,” with a clean interface, like a job site. Categories: Business Dinner Companion, Social Event Partner, Family Gathering Boyfriend Rental… prices varied.

She found the “Engagement/Wedding Companion” category and filtered by date (the party date) and location. A list appeared, mostly photos of men with brief descriptions, with hourly or package prices. The prices made her gasp. The cheapest—a decent‑looking young man—was two hundred and fifty dollars for a four‑hour base package. That didn’t include possible transportation or clothing surcharges.

Two hundred and fifty dollars. She almost closed the page.

But Aunt Martha’s voice, and the gold‑embossed “Formal Attire Required” on the invitation, rang sharply in her mind again.

She closed her eyes, then opened them. Her gaze went to the sleeping Lily, then back to the screen, to the photo of the man priced at two hundred and fifty dollars. His name was “Liam.” His profile read: Reliable, polite, skilled in social settings, providing impeccable companionship experience for clients.

Impeccable companionship experience.

She needed that. She needed someone so she could walk into Oak Ridge Country Club with her head high, so she could smile impeccably at Aunt Martha and all those “decent people” and show them: See? I’m not alone. I’m doing fine.

This was crazy. It would use up her last safety net. It might be the stupidest, most reckless thing she had ever done.

But she didn’t care anymore.

Ava reached out with cold, trembling fingers, moved the mouse, and clicked the “Book Now” button. The page redirected to payment. She picked up the envelope of emergency cash and pulled out two one‑hundred‑dollar bills and a fifty—exactly two hundred and fifty dollars. That would leave her with just enough for a few days of bread and milk. Then she took out her rarely used debit card, with less than fifty dollars in the account. She entered the card number, security code, and expiration date.

The cursor blinked over “Confirm Payment.”

She hesitated for one last second. Her eyes swept over the numbers on the screen, the dim light of the room, and finally rested on the small sleeping figure behind the curtain.

For Lily. And for herself. Just this one time.

She clicked Confirm.

The screen went dark for a moment, then a new page appeared. A green checkmark and a line of bold text:

Booking Confirmed!

Your Exclusive Companion: Damian

Order details and contact information have been sent to your email.

Booking confirmed.

Ava stared at those two words. All the strength drained out of her. She slumped back into the creaky old computer chair. No relief, no joy—only a cold blankness and a bone‑deep, burned‑out exhaustion after burning her bridges.

The glow of the computer screen reflected in her hollow eyes, the only piercing light in that cramped, shabby apartment.