She has spent her whole life being valued. Nobody has ever bothered to do the sum.

Jane Whitmore runs her father's holdings from the twenty-eighth floor and gives away most of what they throw off. She has met every eligible billionaire in New York, and by now she could write the transcript in advance — the hand on the small of her back, the word formidable, the merger with a wedding cake on top. So she built a fence around her life and made a kind of peace with it.

On Saturdays she takes the 6 train to a church basement in the South Bronx, puts on a hairnet, and serves dinner to a hundred and forty people whose names she knows.

Mark Halloway is the Halloway nobody photographs. His brother has the tower and the magazine covers. Mark has the cold storage, the port leases, and a locker in Bayonne under his mother's surname. When he hears that Jane needs a driver, he does the only honest thing he can think of, and the most dishonest thing he has ever done.

He applies.

He never lies. Not once, not about a single fact. He arranges the truth like a shop window and lets a woman fall in love with the half of him that has never once been chosen.

It works. That is the problem.

Because there is a man in this city who went to school with Mark Halloway, and on the twenty-third of January he is standing at a window, watching a car parked at the north end of the block, deciding whether to say something.

A love story about money, concealment, and the small unwitnessed decencies that turn out to be the whole of a person. Dual point of view, closed door throughout, and a complete standalone with a happy ending.