But his smile faltered at the memory of turning her down. He had been too hasty. He had been wrapped up in his anxiety and his need for everything to go perfectly and had only seen her as an irritant, a fly in the ointment. But now that the event was over, he faced the realization that he had publicly turned down the most provocative woman he’d ever encountered. Her beauty was not the heavy-handed type that knocked you over. No—her entire persona was like binge-watching true-crime documentaries. You tell yourself, I’m only half-interested. I’ll only watch the first half hour. Next thing you know it’s six a.m., you’ve overeaten, and you’re still frantically pressing next episode.

His cell phone rang. Gigi.

“Hey, Mr. Meme.”

Dorsey rolled his eyes. “Yes, Gigi. I know you’re enjoying the hell out of this.”

“Why are you so awkward?” Gigi teased. “I watched it again, and I saw you doing that thing with your hand like you’re jingling keys. Chances are one hundred percent you were smoking like a chimney last night.”

“Just one.”

“Of your precious Treasurers, right?”

“Leave my ridiculous cigarettes alone.”

“I still can’t believe you know her.”

“Who, Liza Bennett? Is she someone to know?”

Holy shit, am I cool?

“Have you ever read any of her stuff? She’s sharp.”

“No, I haven’t,” Dorsey lied. He couldn’t give this shark even one drop of blood.

“You need to read more. And speaking of, I want to send you something.”

Dorsey prickled with uneasiness. “What?”

“Some pages from an article I want to write. About my past.” Gigi had always struggled with belonging, even more than he had. It had driven her to some extreme behaviors, including a few altercations with their adoptive parents she would later admit to regretting.

“Gigi, can’t you just come out on Twitter like everybody else?” He paused for a beat. Oh. She was talking about the other thing. “I thought you wanted to lead this company. No one will let you near any boardroom if you write about all of that.”

“Dorsey, I have a record. If that record would keep me from serving, it always would. Quiet or out loud.” The pause was heavier than Dorsey liked.

“Don’t you want to protect our parents’ legacy?” Dorsey faltered. “I mean, we owe it to them to keep the Fitzgerald name—”

“Get real, Datu. No one sees you as a Fitzgerald.” It felt like a hot slap in the face. “No one sees me as one either. I’m an African girl with the right last name.”

“You are a Fitzgerald. Those labels—African, Black, whatever—don’t define you.”

“Tell that to everyone else. All my life I’ve been treated like some kind of museum exhibit. And the boys . . . the boys we grew up with don’t want to date me.”