“This is a beautiful event,” someone says, and I turn to see a gray-haired couple, each with a glass of wine. They’re not regulars, and I’m thrilled to see new faces.

“I’m so happy you’re enjoying yourselves!” I say, smiling. “I’m Josie Klein, manager.”

“Robert and Ingrid Schwartz,” the man says, shaking my hand. He’s a retired attorney, he tells me, and his wife is on the board of the art museum.

“I had no idea this place was here,” she says, showing me her stack of books—a copy of each of tonight’s selections, plus a few others. “What a gem! You can be sure I’ll be back.”

I beam. “Thank you so much.”

“Every aspect of tonight has been curated to perfection,” her husband adds. “The books, the wine…and as Ingrid knows, I’m a huge fan of Itzhak Perlman.”

“Huge fan,” Mrs. Schwartz says, nodding.

I smile as I try to figure out what they’re talking about. “I’m not familiar with his work. What has he written?”

Mr. Schwartz gives me an indulgent smile. “He’s a violinist. Extremely well known.”

At my blank look, his wife adds, “You’re playing his music. I think my husband assumed—”

“Of course!” I say, laughing awkwardly. “I’m a huge fan, too. So nice to meet you both.”

I excuse myself, hoping they don’t notice my flushed cheeks. It’s a reminder that I am, indeed, still faking it—and I haven’t made it yet.

The sommelier begins his presentation about the rosé he paired with another selection, and I smile while watching everyone nod along.

But then a ripple passes through the crowd. People take a step back. There’s a gasp, a shriek, and the sickening crash of breaking glass.

Heart in my throat, I push through the group to see a huge black cat leaping from the display table, leaving toppled-over books, broken wineglasses, and a wine bottle shattered on the floor. The sommelier shouts some expletive in French, and a woman exclaims loudly that her shoes are now covered in wine.

Horrified, I lunge for the cat, but it slinks away, tiptoeing across a shelf, and I follow it, tossing apologies over my shoulder to my customers and promises to return as soon as I can. How the hell did a cat even get in here? It slips through the slightly open door to my back room—did someone leave the door to the alley open?—and on, past stacks of boxes.

I ease closer, reach down, and carefully pick it up. It rears back and hisses and—

“LET GO OF MY CAT!”

A monstrous figure materializes out of the shadows. I shriek as the cat twists out of my hands and leaps away from me…right into the arms of my adversary.