“Of course he’s good to you. He knows how lucky he’d be to have you. Look at you. Look at him. But Julian is good to you, too,” she says.

I don’t understand why Quan would be lucky to have me. I’m a mess. My life is a mess. I haven’t even been able to tell him that I love him.

But I think I do.

I think I’ve fallen hopelessly and irrevocably in love with him, like seahorses and anglerfish do.

“You need to talk to that Quan,” my mom says. “He’s not a bad person. He deserves for you to treat him with respect. Be kind when you end things.”

Tears blur my vision, but I hold them back. “He makes me happy, Ma.”

My mom sighs and gets up to come to my side. “He’s a phase. You don’t marry boys like that.”

“He doesn’t feel like a phase.”

“Trust me, okay?” my mom says. Her voice is gentle, her expression caring, and I’m reminded that she loves me. She doesn’t have a Make Anna Miserable agenda. She wants what’s best for me—unless it conflicts with what’s best for my dad or Priscilla. Then I’m a lower priority. Because I’m youngest and female and unremarkable. That’s just how things are. “You’re young. You don’t know the value of what you have. But I know. Julian will take care of you, Anna. You need that. You knew how we felt about your music career, but you chose it anyway. Now you have to be realistic.”

“I’m not good at anything else,” I remind her.

When my parents first signed me up for violin lessons, I think they did harbor the hope that I was a prodigy and would go places. When special talents never arose, they kept me in lessons because it would look good on my college applications if I was “well-rounded.”

That’s how it worked for Priscilla. She performed a violin solo at Carnegie Hall when she was in high school, and that experience, coupled with her exemplary academic record, got her into Stanford, where she majored in economics, and then went on to receive an MBA. Everyone was horrified when I announced that instead of following in Priscilla’s footsteps, I wanted to use my musical training to be an actual musician.

“You didn’t try anything else,” my mom says with a distasteful twist of her mouth. “You could have taken over my accounting business. I would have been happy to hand it to you.”

“I’m horrible at math. Besides, I’m doing okay now,” I say, hopeful that I’ve finally proven to her that my one rebellion was truly the best choice for me.

My mom pins a hard look on me. “You know your success is temporary. Soon you’ll be back to struggling to pay your rent.”

My throat swells, and I bite the inside of my lip so the small physical pain can distract me from my turbulent emotions. I hold my dad’s hand tighter, stroke my thumb over his pockmarked knuckles. He doesn’t hold me back.

“You know I tell you these things so it’ll hurt less when you hear it from others,” my mom says softly.

Swallowing past the tightness in my throat, I nod.

“Mom is tired, so I’m going to sleep now.” She strokes my hair much like Julian did earlier, and I hold still and let her, even though it feels like ants are crawling on my scalp. It’s how she demonstrates affection for me. When I was young, I lashed out when people—my grandparents, aunts, uncles, et cetera—tried to touch me this way, and I was chastised and punished for it. It hurt people’s feelings and made them feel rejected, a terrible sin, especially between a child and an elder, so I learned, by necessity, to grit my teeth through it. I grit my teeth now. “You’re a good girl, Anna. What we’re doing is hard, but you don’t complain. You always listen. You make me proud.”

With one last pat on my head, she leaves. Tears swim in my eyes before falling onto the back of my dad’s hand. I wipe them away with my sleeve, but they keep falling.

I don’t make a single sound as I cry.

THIRTY

Quan

“SO GOOD TO MEET YOU IN PERSON AT LAST,” I TELL PAUL RICHARD, head of LVMH Acquisitions, as I shake his hand.

“Likewise.” He flashes a polite smile at me, and after unbuttoning his suit coat, he sits in the chair across from me at the restaurant table.

I’ve been looking forward to this meeting all week. It’s our last meeting before we finalize the terms in the contracts. After that, we’re signing.

Michael Larsen Apparel is going to be an LVMH Moët Hennessy Louis Vuitton company.

But this guy is giving me strange vibes. I don’t know what it is exactly, but something isn’t right.

A waiter offers to fill his water glass, and he waves them away. “No need, I won’t be long.” Focusing on me, he says, “You probably have lots of questions, so let me reassure you that yes, we want Michael Larsen and the MLA brand under our umbrella. We’re devoted to making this happen. And I must say, your leadership of the company up until now has been impressive.”

“Thank you,” I say, thinking maybe I was wrong about him. “It’s been really exciting getting the company off the ground. I’m looking forward to working with your team as we continue to grow.”

“It would be a learning experience for you, I’m sure,” Paul says, and there it is again. That strange vibe. “Especially given your limited experience.”

I sit up straighter in my chair as alarm shoots up my spine. “That hasn’t been an issue for us so far.”

Paul makes a point of adjusting the diamond cuff link on his pristine white sleeve before saying, “Let’s cut straight to the chase. You’re not the right person to lead the company post acquisition. We’re going to instate a CEO with the proper credentials, but if you’re interested, we would like you to head the sales team.”

My body heats up until I can feel my neck burning beneath the collar of my T-shirt and sports jacket. “We were assured since the beginning that Michael and I would remain in our current positions.”

“Michael definitely needs to remain,” Paul says.

And I understand what he’s not saying: Michael is essential. I’m not.

“You and Michael Larsen are family, is that correct?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

Watching me steadily, he says, “I know it would be easy to take this personally and turn the deal down, but you need to ask yourself if that would be the best thing for Michael. I’m telling you now, if you do that, you won’t hear from us again. This is a once-in-a-lifetime offer.” Before I can say anything, he gets up, buttons his suit coat, and checks his watch, frowning like our two-second meeting ran long. “I’m going to have the lawyers put a pause on the contracts. A week should be enough time for you to think things over. You have my contact information. I hope I hear good news a week from Monday.”

He leaves, and I sit there alone. For the first time in my life, I really understand what it means to “lose face.” The waiter approaches and asks if I’d like anything, and I can’t turn my face toward them. I can’t stand being seen right now. I can’t look anyone in the eye.

I haven’t eaten and I like this place, but I throw a twenty on the table and go, keeping my head down. Outside, I plow down the sidewalk until I reach my bike and then I jump on it and hit the streets. I don’t know where I’m going, but I’m going to get there fast.