“Can you tell me which poster will look best with the Mayfair Instagram filter? Don’t you think this has too much red?”

She couldn’t know who he was. Dear god, she kept talking. She wanted in. And she was not above using her charms to get past him. The security he’d set up was an absolute joke.

“Do you want a picture with me?” she continued. “You can tag me. Trust me, it’s gonna be great for your feed.”

This woman sidled up next to him, her hair tickling his jaw. She made a peace sign and pushed out her hips in a pose he had seen too many times. Roasted coffee beans and some other nutty sweet smell curled around him. When his arm didn’t lift to snap the photo, she nodded. “You’re right, this is your place of employment. If they think you had something to do with this, you don’t know where your next paycheck would come from.” She put her hand to her heart. “Solidaridad, hermano.” He would have laughed if he weren’t so offended.

He got this a lot, actually. No one could ever guess his heritage, and he did not look like his parents remotely, so no one would assume he was the scion to the country’s most profitable development firm. He was the brown-skinned Asian in the crowd of pale, patrician faces. At six foot two, he was freakishly tall for a Filipino, unfashionably dark for a Taiwanese, too vaguely Asian for his white American friends, and too socially awkward for the wealthy socialite set. His loving adoptive mother and father never seemed to notice how often their multicultural children were mistaken for the servants’ children. His Kenyan sister, his Slovenian brother. No one was ever really sure how they all fit together, but they had, and before the accident, they had all been happy. Only two Fitzgeralds had escaped that car accident. And while he was grateful he and his little sister survived, Dorsey sometimes wished that someone other than him—someone more worthy of the title—could protect the family’s interest.

People like this insipid woman with ridiculous hair did not see past his race to determine his position in society. Was he a busboy out for a smoke break to her? The gall. She put her hands on his forearms and frowned, appearing slightly surprised by the soft, buttery feel of the coat.

“So nice . . . What is this material?” she asked.

“Merino wool,” he said coolly. “Hand-tailored.” A wholly unnecessary comment, but he wanted her to take the bait. His responsibility was over, really. He had subtly told her he wasn’t who she thought. To her credit, her smile did not waver. Her eyebrows knit together with the slightest tell of confusion.