I was so over this babysitting thing.

Like, seriously—who knew people could be this cheap? Ten bucks to babysit for an entire week? What did they think I was, a charity? I was this close to deleting my entire business page and moving on with my life when my phone lit up with a new offer.

$500 for a weekend.

Holy. Shit.

That was actual money. Not "here’s a crumpled five, go buy yourself something nice" money—real, honest-to-God get-me-out-of-this-hellhole town money.

So obviously, I said yes.

When I pulled up to the house, my jaw practically unhinged. This wasn’t just a nice house—it was a mansion. The kind you only see in influencer house tours. A freaking white Lamborghini was parked in the driveway like it was no big deal, and the place had one of those giant black fences that screamed rich people live here—go away.

I found the spare key under the flowerpot (classic), let myself in, and called out in my best babysitter voice,

“Hey, kiddo! Meredith, your super cool babysitter, has officially arrived—”

I stopped dead.

Standing in the middle of the living room wasn’t a kid. It was a girl. And not just any girl—she looked my age.

What. The. Hell?