A waiter stood near the door with a plate full of mini tarts, so teensy that only one fruit fit atop each. Oscar turned to it, eyes wide, but Nora steered him to a cluster of young partygoers in business suits. She was as grabby with him as Dad and Win—no glance to see whether Oscar might, in fact, like to stop for a fruit tart. She acted like he was hers.

Something urged me to walk up and extract him, but as Nora launched into introductions, I stopped myself. He had to shake hands. That was why he was here.

“Oscar, this is Scott Tambliss, he is a real up-and-comer on Wall Street, but before that, would you believe he played the trombone?”

Oscar shook, greeted, all polish. I was being silly, he was made for this. Nora graced me with a cheerful glare, the kind you give a puppy for come, but I let my eyes drift, clinging to my current status: Oscar Bell’s anonymous date.

“Champagne?” A waitress in an all-black uniform offered me a glass.

“Um.”

Her tray wavered. She looked tired already and the party had just begun. Part of me wanted to help her hand these out.

“Thank you.” I took the flute carefully, like the stem might notice I was underage and snap in protest.

The last time I’d come to a party at this club was four years ago—a Diamond Tier reception following a performance of Rigoletto at the Met. Thirteen-year-old me had ordered a ginger ale in a champagne glass and felt transgressive, waiting for someone to cry out in shock. Nobody looked at me the whole night—Mom, Dad, any of the guests. I could have just as easily been drinking the real stuff.

Well, I was drinking the real stuff tonight! It fizzed and burned and swirled as it went down. And this time people were looking at me.

Men were looking, in every corner of the room. My instinct was to slump, cross arms, duck into shadows, but I didn’t. I pulled back my shoulders. I sipped my illicit champagne, steadied my ankles in my heels, smiled vaguely back at groups of strangers while Oscar worked the room.

Standing beside the window with what looked like a married couple, a guy—too old for me by a measure of decades—raised his glass in a tiny toast. I sipped from my own in reply.

Maybe Jules was right. Maybe aesthetics could be a kind of armor. Standing here with strangers’ eyes roving my body, I felt more invisible than when I was a kid, hiding behind the roll-up bar, stealing cherries while the grown-ups talked. This dress, this hair, this makeup, was more of a costume than anything I’d worn yet. Skimpy as it was, it covered me completely.