I met Connor Ashford at a friend's birthday party five months earlier.

He was handsome, funny and very charming. He worked at an investment bank in Midtown. He took me to restaurants I'd only read about.

When I told him I was a teacher, he said, “That's so cool.”

I didn't tell him about BrightPath.

That was a choice. A few years before, I'd dated a man who changed completely when he found out how much the company was worth. Suddenly he wanted a new car. A bigger apartment. Introductions to investors. When I said no, he left.

After that, I made myself a rule. I'd tell a boyfriend about BrightPath after six months. Not before. I wanted to know he liked me. The teacher. The girl from Scranton with the Target cardigans.

It wasn't hard to hide. I don't do interviews. My photo isn't on our website. I still live in the same small apartment in Park Slope.

Connor thought I made sixty-eight thousand dollars a year and tutored a bit on the side. We were at five months.

And now I was sitting at a table in Tribeca, listening to his friends laugh at me.

And listening to Connor laugh with them.