Her phone buzzed, letting her know that Portia was outside. She grabbed her purse and rushed out, hopping over a small box that had been left outside her door. She turned her key in the lock and picked up the package as she hurried out of the apartment; her street was narrow and she hated the honking and cursing that ensued when a car double-parked.

Still, she couldn’t wait until she got downstairs to know what was inside. She unwrapped it and pulled off the top as she ran down the stairs—she’d waitressed in heels and was fairly sure she could run at least a 5k in them while balancing trays. Opening a box was nothing.

A small slip of rich, heavy paper rested inside; for a moment she had the ridiculous fear that it would say “Greetings from Thesolo,” but the smooth, beautiful cursive apparently belonged to Jamal.

Ledi,

I apologize for the way last night ended—worrisome news from home awaited me, and more arrived this morning. I’ve spent the day attempting to put out fires (figurative ones—I learned my lesson, oh Ledi, goddess of fire extinguishers). I don’t have much time left in New York, and it’s imperative that I see you tonight. There is something we must discuss, and it is of the utmost importance, but besides that, I want to see you. I should be focused on my work, but I’ve spent every free moment thinking of you. You’ve become rather important to me, it seems. Here is something to bring you luck.

Your neighbor, Jamal (for now)

When she moved the paper aside, she saw a small glass vial encased in ornate metalwork nestled into the cotton lining the box. A silver chain was connected to the vial, meaning it could also be worn. She lifted it by the delicate metallic links and flipped back the small cork at the top. A strange warmth spiraled in her chest as the scent of the eng oil hit her, one that wasn’t caused by the squeeze of her push-up bra. Why did he have this effect on her? How could a guy she’d only known for a few days and met under the strangest circumstances leave her feeling breathless?

She dabbed a drop of oil onto her wrist, then secured the cork and slid the necklace around her neck. She hurried to the giant SUV waiting at the curb and was reaching for the door handle when a giant of a man stepped around the car and pulled it open for her.

Well.

“What’s up with the fancy car and driver?” she asked Portia as she slid onto the buttery leather seat. Her friend looked at her, uncomprehending, and she realized that this was part of the life Portia protected as much as Ledi did her own privacy. Ledi had gone to fancy clubs and fancy restaurants with Portia, had joined her and her artsy acquaintances for a winter weekend at her parents’ ski chalet and a Fourth of July cookout at the Sag Harbor summer bungalow. Those had seemed like rare, wondrous treats for Ledi, but for Portia, multiple homes and drivers who could take on a defensive line were normal.

“You smell good. And you look amazing,” Portia said, ignoring the awkward question with a refinement borne of years of charm school. “That color just pops, and you’re glowing! And that necklace is exquisite.”

Ledi ran a finger over the metal vines encasing the glass vial. “Well, I’m guessing Dr. Okri won’t be that interested in my looks, but every little bit counts.”

“You bet your ass it does,” Portia said, eyes narrowing. She opened a small cooler compartment and pulled out a can.

“Soda?” Ledi asked. Her public health side was already tsk-tsking at the high sugar levels in the drink, but Portia laughed and shook her head.

“Champagne. In a can! I think my dad is an investor in the company or something.”

“No thanks.” Ledi shook her head. “I can’t be slurring my words while begging for a practicum.”

Portia chattered away as the car moved through the Friday night traffic. She’d signed up for yet another art internship, after deciding she didn’t like her current gallery. She was taking a metalworking class, in addition to the social engineering course, and was thinking about getting into social media management. She presented these new possibilities with the unvarnished optimism that she always had for new endeavors at the beginning; Ledi hoped one of the projects would hold the key to making her friend happy.

“What kind of fundraiser is this?” Ledi asked abruptly, realizing she had no idea what she was walking into.

Portia pulled out a compact and reapplied her lipstick. “It’s an annual charity event for a pan-African organization. I usually just go for the Jollof rice, but they actually do really important work. Vaccinations, microloans, PTSD counseling in countries recovering from strife, etc. And everyone always looks stunning. I’ve made some great connections with artists and educators here, too.”

“That actually sounds really interesting. Thanks again for inviting me.”

Portia eyed her speculatively, and then put the compact away. “I think interesting may be an understatement for tonight, but we’ll see.”

Ledi turned and looked out of the window, glancing up at the tall buildings that lined Park Avenue. She inhaled deeply. If luck was on her side, what happened at the benefit would change her life.

Chapter 19

Ledi had thought herself dressed up, but as soon as she stepped into the lobby of the Waldorf Astoria she felt like a dull black-and-white microgel next to beautiful color-stained cells. Beneath the high ceilings and Corinthian columns, throngs of women in elaborate headwraps and wax print dresses in patterns that put peacocks to shame chatted in a variety of languages. Men wearing equally elegant and bright African print suits stood by their sides or wandered into the lounge area. One woman floated toward the elevator bank in a skirt that billowed out behind her like a blazing orange phoenix’s tail.