Liza knew Janae probably didn’t want her textbook pessimism, so she didn’t push too hard. She was so glad she had never blabbed to her sister about her thing with Dorsey. She would have never lived the shame down.

“I’ll let you know if there is anything to report,” Janae said and then deftly changed the subject. “Have you spoken to WIC?”

“Thankfully, no. I never want to speak to him again.”

“He is a manipulative asshole,” Janae said. “To think he could have gotten you involved in some criminal activity! So you two never . . . ?”

“No.”

“We were all wondering why you were so slow to warm up to him. He seemed perfect.” Janae nodded curtly in acceptance of the second weave ponytail Liza offered for her inspection.

WIC never really had a fighting chance to take root within Liza—not after BB. Liza sectioned her life into two segments: Before Blue Bell ice cream and After Blue Bell ice cream. Liza hated hiding something like this from Janae, but if she told her one thing, she would have to tell her everything. And after remaining silent for so long, it got harder and harder to tell the entire truth.

“Okay now, punch up that tight little dress with some jewelry. You’ll catch some eyes tonight, little sister.”

“Yeah, eighty-year-old Filipino dignitaries’ eyes!” Liza quipped.

“If I were you, I would take what I can get!” Janae joked.

Liza pressed the end button and finished up her gloss in the mirror. “Dress how you want to feel,” she mumbled to herself.

Liza took the train in five-inch heels and remembered the comfort of Dorsey’s town car. The way he had searched for the seat belt and grazed the peaks of her aching breasts with his knuckles. He didn’t know it, but he’d had her then.

Liza chided herself for acting like a spoiled princess. You’re wistful over a damn town car.

Janae had been right about her dress. It was getting a lot of eyes. Unfortunately, in the subway, most were the eyes that threatened instead of appreciated. She would Uber home for sure. She checked her Instagram, just to confirm. A picture of Dorsey in Seoul, Korea, popped up. Liza was more than a little relieved. She had seen Pemberley on the donors list and had feared Dorsey might be there. The last thing she wanted was for Dorsey to think she was keeping up with his whereabouts. But he was off living his best Gangnam-style life.

Dorsey regretted coming as soon as he sat down. Everyone was uncomfortably reverential to him. A fifty-year-old man gave him mano po, a customary respectful greeting usually reserved for elders. He would be out of here in the next half hour, he determined. He would thank everyone, smile for pictures, grab Gigi, and slip out the back.