Emma Swan would like to think of herself as Wonder Woman in some respects. Not that she has any super powers-except for a damn near infallable lie detector-and she doesn't consider herself especially noble or valiant. Most of the time, she's just your average, everyday woman.

It's times like these, though, when she wonders if maybe somewhere out there, there is magic at work on her side. Because she's stretched out on her ten-year-old son's bed with him burrowed sweetly beside her, with one hand slipping through his sleek, brown hair gently. Her eyes are trained on the ceiling of his bedroom in their Boston loft as she tells him a bedtime story. It's the same one he has requested every single night since she first told it to him when he was two. A story that Emma can only assume she made up because she's certain no one ever told it to her before. Although she didn't think her feeble imagination capable of coming up with such a spectacular tale.

"And so the Evil Queen decided to cast a curse over all the realm," Emma recites as she plays with Henry's hair. Almost time for a trim, she notes in the back of her mind. "To exact her revenge, she swore she would take away Snow White's happiness just as she had taken hers away. So, she cast a dark curse given to her by Rumpelstiltskin that banished all the fairytale characters to A Land Without Magic where they would not remember their true identities and would live their lives with no happy endings."

"But," Henry interjects from his place by her side with a big grin, "it didn't work. Because the Savior came to town and defeated the Evil Queen by making her fall in love with her. True Love's kiss broke the curse, and all the happy endings were restored. And they all lived happily ever after."

"Hey, who's telling this story?" Emma says with a smile. "Are you ever going to ask for a different bedtime story, kid?"

"Nope," he answers as he fights off a yawn. "That's my favorite."

"It is a pretty good one." Standing up, Emma tucks him further into bed before leaning forward and placing a kiss on his forehead. "Night, kid. I love you."

"Night, Ma," he says back. "I love you, too. Be careful at work tonight."

"I will, Henry."

"Kick the bad guy's butt."

Emma smiles, shaking her head as she turns out the lamp and walks out of the bedroom. That kid is too perceptive for his own good. Emma isn't sure where he gets it from. She has intuition, but she can't cause her overactive mind to focus long enough to pick up on all the things Henry does. Especially not when she was his age. And his father certainly wasn't any Einstein.

Emma moves into the kitchen where she finds her next-door neighbor and long-time friend, August Booth leaned against the counter with a beer in hand and some reheated Chinese from the fridge.

"Thanks again for watching him, August," Emma says as she grabs her red, leather jacket from the closet and pulls it on. "I seriously appreciate it."

"No problem," August replies with a smile that makes his lapis blue eyes crinkle. "I'm always glad to watch Henry-he's a great kid. Also, you've got more food than I do."

Emma laughs. "Well, you know the drill. Help yourself to whatever you want. If he wakes up in the middle of the night, a glass of milk usually does the trick. Maybe read him a story from some of the books in his room. Not the superhero comics, though. All the action gets him excited, and then he'll never go to sleep. He usually does pretty good about staying asleep, though. You shouldn't have any problems."

"I never do," August assures her. "It's fine. Seriously. Go do your job."

"I shouldn't be too long. This guy is kind of a small fry. Shouldn't take too long to catch him. Two, maybe three hours at the most."

"Emma." August places a warm hand on her shoulder. "Take as long as you need. We'll be fine here. Just be careful."

"Always am." She opens the front door. "Thanks again, August. Oh, and, if Henry wakes, don't let him talk you into hot cocoa. He'll try to tell you that I let him have it to fall back asleep-I don't. It gives him a major sugar rush."

"Emma Swan, get out of this apartment right now."

Emma laughs before closing the door behind her. She takes the elevator down to the lobby of the apartment complex and walks out onto the streets of Boston. Twenty minutes later, she steps inside a crowded bar. It's an upscale one, the kind that is labelled as a "lounge." Standing in a far corner, she lets her gaze sweep the area, familiarizing herself with the place. Checking all exits. Mapping possible escape routes. From what she can see, there are only two possible exits. The front door and the door that leads through the kitchen to the back exit. Good. She can cover both pretty easily if need be. Next, Emma searches the sea of faces in the bar for one in particular.

She finds her mark settled at the bar bent over a cell phone and an Old Fashioned. Ugh. The drink of a real dickhead. He's a man in his mid-to-late forties with a CEO's haircut, a business suit, and a watch on his wrist that looks like it costs more than Emma's monthly rent. All of which were paid for with embezzled money.

George Waters is a financial adviser employed by various non-profit organizations to help maximize economic efficiency. Well, he was before he was busted for stealing funds from pretty much every company he ever worked for. His loving and long suffering wife, Stephanie, had come to Emma's boss to bail him out upon his arrest. And George decided it would be a great idea to jump bail and miss his court date. Because George is an asshole.

Taking a moment to primp her long, sunshine-blonde curls, Emma makes her way for the bar, slipping between the crowd until she takes the seat next to George Waters. She doesn't miss how he looks her over as she speaks to the bartender.

"Vodka Cranberry," she orders, and the bartender nods. Emma sits with her hands folded in her lap, watching the man behind the bar mix her drink while the man beside her watches her. She pretends not to notice. She knows exactly the type of man George Waters is. The old-fashioned yuppy who doesn't like a woman to initiate an encounter. No, George Waters likes to make the first move, to hold the power. To dominate because he's important. Emma may never have met him before, but she knows his type all too well.

The bartender finishes her drink, and Emma moves to pay.

"Put it on my tab," George says just as she knew he would. She looks up at him behind hooded lashes, the edges of her mouth curving slightly.

"Oh, you don't have to do that," she says in a voice that doesn't even sound like her own. Blonde Bimbo is a role she hates to assume, but she knows George Waters will fall for it hook, line, and sinker.

He smiles back at her. "It's no problem at all. A beautiful woman should never have to pay for her own drinks." He extends his hand out. "George Waters."

"Emma Swan." She shakes his hand. "Thank you for the drink." Lifting her glass to him, she drinks.

"My pleasure. What brings you here, Emma Swan?" His hand falls on her knee, and Emma places her now empty glass back on the bar. Reaching down, she covers the hand with her own.

With a sultry smile, she says, "You, George."

His cocky smiles remains, but he knits his brow. "Have we met?"

"No, but I've had the pleasure of meeting your lovely wife, Stephanie." His face falls. "She's wonderful, but, man, is she worried about you, George. Really, it's inconsiderate of you. There she put her neck on the line to make your bail, and you went off and missed your court date. Kind of a dick move, don't you think?"

He tries to jerk his hand away and run, but Emma's finger intertwine around his wrist tightly, holding him in place.

"What do you want?" he spits at her.

"I want you back behind bars where you belong," she says back. "Stealing from charities, George? That's a new low."

"Bitch!" He bolts to his feet and shoves her back, but she holds her footing even as her grasp on him slips. She punches him in the nose, and he staggers backwards as the bar patrons scatter. It's not the kind of place where fights are very common, and no one appears to know what to make of the scene.

"That's not a very nice thing to say, George," she tisks. "Here I was thinking you were such a gentleman for buying my drink tonight. You're soiling my image of you. Going to make it a lot easier to take you back to jail."

"I'm not going anywhere with you!" She isn't prepared for the stiff-necked man to be as spry as he is, so it is a surprise when his foot sweeps out and catches her knees. She tumbles backward, slamming on the floor and hitting her head hard. For a few seconds, she sees only stars, a metallic taste filling her mouth. By the time she blinks herself back into consciousness, George Waters is long gone. Groaning, Emma finds her way to her feet and rubs her already aching head. Well, that didn't go as planned.

Because her head hurts, and she is pissed, Emma decides to stay and have another drink. Sitting back at the bar, she offers an apology and an especially generous tip to the bartender to keep him from calling the cops, both of which he accepts. She downs another drink, this one a straight shot of whiskey that burns all the way down. It's a good burn, though. It distracts from the throbbing in the back of her head, where a knot is already forming.

"That looked like it hurt."

Emma looks up to see a woman slipping into the seat beside of her. Immediately, her mouth dries at the sight before her. Short, perfect black hair. Piercing amber eyes. Olive skin. Blood red, full lips with a curious little scar that only adds to her incredible beauty. Clad in a sinfully tight, black dress, the woman looks like she belongs on the cover of a magazine or in a Hollywood movie. She gives Emma a smile that makes the blonde's stomach knot.

"Well, uh, it didn't feel great," Emma says back when she finally remembers how to speak. "But I've been through worse."

One perfectly manicured eyebrow arches in interest. "Oh? You get into bar fights often?"

"A few times a week, unfortunately." Emma lets out a small laugh at the surprise on the woman's face. "It's kind of my job."

"And what do you do?"

"Bailbondsperson."

"Ah. That sounds exciting."

"It keeps me on my toes. What about you?"

The woman straightens her back proudly. "I'm in politics."

"That explains the winning smile," Emma notes, and the woman releases a throaty laugh that makes the hairs on Emma's neck stand up. "So, what are you? Like, a Senator or something?"

"Not quite that high up yet," the woman answers. "I'm the mayor of a small town in Maine." She extends a hand. "Regina Mills."

"Emma Swan." She shakes the proffered hand. "So, Maine, huh? That's a pretty far cry from here. What brings you to Boston?"

"Business, actually," Regina says. "I'm looking for someone to employ for a rather... unorthodox service. Boston is large enough that I thought I would most certainly find someone suitable."

"Well, I might could help you there. I've been here a while, and I know every inch of this city. I could probably find someone for you. What kind of service are we talking?"

"I have it all outlined in this contract, actually." Regina extracts an envelope from her purse and opens it to reveal a formal business contract filled with legal jargon Emma can't even begin to understand. "It's a simple agreement as you'll find. In short, I am in need of a date for my sister's wedding this weekend. The engagement is out of town and would last for four days straight. As you can see in the contract, I am offering more than fair compensation."

Emma scratches the back of her neck, brow knit. The contract is a lot of things, but simple isn't one. "So, like an escort?"

Regina cringes at the word. "I'm not looking for a call girl, Miss Swan. It would be strictly for show. Entirely professional." She folds her hands in her lap as Emma scans over the contract, looking more and more confused with every word. "Do you have any questions?"

Yes, Emma does have questions. A whole lot of questions. Like, for starters, why does Regina need to hire someone to be her date? The woman is basically a goddess as far as appearances go. Emma can't imagine she'd have trouble finding someone willing to go away with her for a weekend without payment. She swallows those more personal questions, though, and opts to stick the those applying strictly to the terms of the contract.

"So, just so I'm clear on this, are you looking for a male or female?" she asks, looking up from the paper at last.

Regina shrugs her shoulders. "I'm open to either, really. Always have been. Of course, whatever the gender, they'll have to be desirable. Very desirable. It is for appearances, after all. An ugly or even average date wouldn't do." Her eyes flash at Emma, and she smirks. "I am partial to blondes."

A choked sound wrenches its way out of the back of Emma's throat. "W-What?"

"Must I spell it out for you, Miss Swan? I thought I was being perfectly obvious." Regina leans forward, offering up an ample view of cleavage that further mystifies Emma, and her hand falls on the blonde's thigh, squeezing it gently. "I'd like for you to be my date."

"Me?" Emma repeats, tearing her wide eyes away from Regina's chest to look her in the face. "But I... Why me?"

"Why not? You fit the criteria well enough." Emma can't help the heat burning her ears at the realization that Regina has just indirectly called her "desirable." "I think you'd do perfectly."

"But this is insane," Emma shakes her head. "Being paid to be your date? That's, like, borderline prostitution."

The brunette's lips pull down. "As I said, Miss Swan, it would be strictly professional. Completely above-the-board. Think of it this way, dear: it's a job, and a good one at that. You just lost a paycheck when you let Mr. Waters escape earlier. Are you really in any position to turn down easy money?"

Emma frowns uncertainly. On the one hand, Regina makes sense. She did just blow what was meant to be next month's rent, and time is running short to make that up. And the money Regina offers is more than enough to cover it. But then it is just so messed up. Maybe it is professional, but it feels like dirty money to Emma. Besides, she has only just met this mysterious woman, and that contract is basically Greek to her. She could be signing over her life for all she knows.

"I don't think so," she finally says, and the disappointment is clear on Regina's face as she sits up, removing her hand at last from Emma's thigh. The blonde is a bit embarrassed by how much she immediately misses those fingers around her leg. "I'm sorry, Regina. I am. I wish I could help you, but I can't. I've got responsibilities, y'know? I can't just go off jet-setting for four days." She sighs. "I really am sorry."

Regina composes herself immediately, planting a wide smile on her face. "No matter. I understand that it is an irregular request. Here. Allow me to buy you another drink as thanks for even considering it."

"That's not necessary, Regina."

There's a predatory look in the brunette's eyes that makes Emma's insides boil. "I insist, Miss Swan."