It’s been years since a guy has introduced me to anyone—so long ago, in fact, that the most memorable example that springs to mind is meeting Holden’s friends at a PBR-soaked basement apartment party back in college. A far cry from Blake’s charity gala.

He slides easily into a circle of people; they shift to make room for us both. Each face seems expectant, like they knew I’d be coming.

“Everyone, this is my girlfriend, Eliza,” he says, slipping my new title in so smoothly. “Eliza, this is my CFO, Dan, his wife, Arielle, Peter, who heads up biz dev, and his partner, Jeff.”

Dan. Arielle. Peter. Jeff. I try to keep the names from swimming; I can’t tell yet if Blake considers these people simply coworkers or actual friends. I shake hands with the men and expect to shake Arielle’s, too, but she pulls me into a hug and kisses me on the cheek. She has a blond braided updo that shows off glittering earrings dangling nearly to her shoulder; they’re kitschy costume jewelry but the nicer kind that can run well into three-digit price tags. I exhale—if nothing else, we can bond over jewelry. I’m wearing Brooklyn Jewels emerald studs to match my dress tonight. I wish more of my customers would be interested in stones other than diamonds; the variety makes them more fun to sell.

“So, we finally meet her,” Dan says, offering Blake a playful grin.

“I promised you she was real,” he jokes.

Am I? I feel guilty again for not being completely honest with him. I knock my knuckles against the side of my head with a solid thunk.

“Ha. Real. I swear,” I say, trying to laugh.

“I’m going to grab us drinks—what do you want?” Blake asks, squeezing my arm.

He’s already trailing off to the bar.

“Uh, whatever you’re having is fine,” I say, too flustered to make a decision.

And then I’m alone with his crew. I’m not normally a shy person—the opposite, in fact. But I so desperately want to play this right, I feel seized by nerves. Arielle and I stare at each other for a moment of silence before we both rush to say, “I love your earrings.” The identical comments make us laugh; the tension between us softens.

“Where are they from?” she asks.

“Actually, they’re my own. I run a jewelry company with my sister,” I explain.

“Oh, what’s it called?”

“Brooklyn Jewels.”

Arielle’s eyes narrow. I finger the back of my earring, suddenly terrified that she might recognize me.

“Is that . . . ?”

She pulls out her phone and begins to scroll through Instagram. My blood runs cold. I try to peer over the edge of her screen. Ten brutal seconds later, she looks up at me and shakes her head.