I grow impatient for Anton to return, but the minutes pass. When I look around the room, I find Leandra Petrov watching me, a martini in her hand. Her expression is smooth as glass as she rolls out her other hand as if telling me to mingle. I nod politely and walk deeper into the party to wait for Anton.

Annalise is gone from the couch. Her father has arrived, handsome and charismatic as he holds court for several people, but mainly Annalise. The other girls are also with their parents or sponsors.

Lennon Rose is nowhere to be seen, even though Leandra’s here. She might be in her room, fixing her makeup. Or maybe she’s still crying.

I stand alone, completely out of place here. An abandoned girl—like an abandoned glass of wine left behind on some table. What does that say to the investors about my worth? Maybe that’s why Lennon Rose’s mother approached me. She probably felt sorry for me.

There is the sound of clinking on a glass, and I turn to see the Head of School standing with a silver spoon against his champagne flute in the back of the room near the patio doors. His wife crosses to stand next to him, beaming proudly at the guests.

“I want to thank you all for attending tonight’s open house,” Mr. Petrov says, his voice deep. He sweeps his eyes over the room, pausing on Sydney and then Annalise before addressing the crowd.

“Over the past three years,” he continues, “Innovations Academy has made incredible strides in perfecting our curriculum. Our girls are well-rounded, excelling in manners and poise, grace and beauty. I dare say the results have far surpassed expectations. In the end,” he says, “we strive for our parents, sponsors, and investors to be proud to have a girl from Innovations Academy. Together, we will show the world a better way. A better girl. And what lovely girls they are,” he adds with a wolfish grin. “Here’s to our success.”

Both Mr. Petrov and his wife lift their glasses, and the room erupts in applause. I press my palms together, but don’t clap along. I’m too worried about Lennon Rose. The other attendees seem thrilled by the Head of School’s confidence. I smile at an exuberant man when he flashes his teeth in my direction.

Just as I turn away, I see Anton walk back into the party, buttoning his suit jacket. The Scholars aren’t with him. I hurriedly make my way over, and Anton sees me before I reach him. He immediately takes my elbow and effortlessly guides me out into the hall, away from the guests.

“I’m sorry about what happened with Lennon Rose’s parents,” he starts. “They’re very distraught by her absence, and they—”

“How is Lennon Rose?” I ask, and his hand drops from my arm in surprise. I flinch. “Sorry to interrupt,” I say, and wait until Anton tells me to continue.

“Is Lennon Rose all right?” I ask. “She was crying earlier, and Leandra brought her back to her room. But she never returned. I’m worried.”

“You don’t have to worry,” Anton says. “Lennon Rose is resting comfortably in her room at this very moment. She needed some time to reevaluate her goals. We’ll take good care of her—I promise. You should get back to the party or the guests will be disappointed.”

“But . . . maybe if I talk to her, I can—”

“Not necessary,” Anton says, waving off the sentiment. “She’ll be better than new soon. Give her space, time to heal. I insist.”

He must see that my worry hasn’t abated.

“You’ve always had a big heart, Mena,” he says. “But I need you to listen to me—not that heart of yours.” He reaches to playfully poke me just below my collarbone, but the pressure is a quick flash of pain. “Understand?” he asks, still smiling.

I nod that I do, realizing that I’ve made him unhappy by questioning his competence. I’ve disrespected him. He is, after all, our analyst. He knows what’s best.

“Lennon Rose is lucky to have you helping her,” I say, hating his disapproval. Lennon Rose was openly crying, troubled. Anton is going to fix that. I’m grateful.

“Just remember,” Anton says earnestly. “You’re all priceless to me. Beautiful works of art. I’ll always protect you, Mena. Always.”

I thank Anton for his words and his kindness.

“Now head back inside,” he says. “I’m sure there are plenty of investors waiting to meet you.”

I do as I’m told and walk into the party. But I’m barely three steps into the room before the man who flashed his teeth at me earlier comes over with a bottle of beer dangling between his fingers. The flush on his cheeks tells me he’s inebriated.

“Hello,” I say. He drags his eyes over my gown before showing me his teeth again.

“Well, hello,” he responds. “Philomena, is it?”

“Yes.” I hold out my hand, and he brings it to his mouth, placing his damp lips against my knuckles. “And you are?” I ask.

“Interested,” he says, still holding my hand to his mouth. It’s inappropriate, but as I tug my hand back, he grips tighter. I dart my eyes around quickly, but the only person who notices me is Leandra. She stares back as if ready to judge my behavior.

I don’t want to be rude to an investor.

“And your name?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even. Pleasant.

“Steven Kohl,” he says, finally dropping my hand. I quickly clasp my fingers behind my back, out of his reach. He takes a step closer to me.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Kohl,” I say.

He looks me over again, and then smiles again. “It’s funny,” he says. “I can actually hear that you’re full of shit. They’ve trained you well. Very well-rounded, indeed.” Only when he says it, he glances at my breasts.

I think about the lessons in class, that even with this man acting improperly, it’s up to me to keep up the decorum. Manage his behavior by appeasing him, not antagonizing.

“And are you thinking of bringing a girl to Innovations Academy, Mr. Kohl?” I ask, trying to find a conversation topic. He laughs again and sloppily drinks from his beer bottle.

“I’m going to invest directly,” he says. “I’m hoping you’re available.”

“Available for what?” I ask, confused. But he only stares his response, as if he enjoys not telling me.

There’s a flash of movement behind him, and suddenly another man steps between us. Winston Weeks, a major investor in Innovations Academy. The ice in his short glass rattles as he takes a sip. Mr. Kohl falls back a step when Winston Weeks turns to him.

“How is your wife, Mr. Kohl?” Mr. Weeks asks smoothly. “I recently attended her gallery to thank her for her investment; her art is exquisite. Have you found work yet?”

Steven Kohl stares at him, not exactly offended by the question, but . . . threatened? Whatever it is, Mr. Kohl takes another messy drink from his beer, the liquid spilling off his chin, before murmuring a goodbye and walking away. When he’s gone, Mr. Weeks turns to me.

Winston Weeks is in his early thirties, the sort of handsome that comes with power—sharp suit; expensive haircut; straight, white veneers. Although we’ve never had a private conversation, I’ve met him at open houses before, watched him make conversation with the guests. Rarely with the girls.