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“You need me to explain how a television works?” I frown. “I can just call tech support to?—”

Her phone must have been buffering or something, because a video blares to life just then. It’s Bea’s gorgeous face, standing by the punch table last night. At first I’m confused, but then I hear what she’s saying.

“My shoes came from DSW, my dress is from Nordstrom Rack, and my watch?” She waves it at the guy she’s talking to. “It’s a hand-me-down from my sister.”

The guy, who’s smiling at her rather creepily, bugs me. I didn’t even notice him hovering around her last night, but now I want to know who he is.

“What do you think about Easton’s company?” he asks her. “Sacrifice Nothing—that’s the name.”

“It’s kind of a stupid name,” Bea says. “I mean, everything in the entire world that matters requires some kind of sacrifice, right?”

Itiskind of a stupid name, but I would never say that publicly, and it’s awkward that she did. Awkward, but ultimately, not really that big of a deal.

I turn toward Mrs. Yaltzinger, but she points. “Keep watching.”

The man I now kind of hate tilts his head. “How so?”

“I get that it appeals to people who have never had to give anything up, and I suppose that’s the whole idea. Their overpriced stuff is for people who want to have it all, but really, they’re fooling themselves.”

“Are they?” The jerk’s smile is so smug I want to smack it off his face.

“Let’s assume the money they have to spend to buy something from that label isn’t already the trade-off,” Bea says, “because they just have so much. They’re also clearly valuing things that won’t really bring them joy. The overpriced clothes and shoes and watches are just another empty patch for the holes in their soul.”

Shoot. That’s pretty damaging. Theholes in their souls? Come on, Bea. A little less pretentious coffeeshop critique and a little more thought about what kind of people you’re talking to would be nice.

She was, after all, at a party full of my friends.

The man knows he’s got her, I can tell. “You’re not like all the people who buy Easton’s brand, then?”

“Vapid, you mean?” she asks. “Spoiled?” I shake my head. “I certainly hope not.”

Alright, that’s pretty bad, but when Mrs. Yaltzinger shuts it off, I breathe a tiny sigh of relief. It’s not the first bad press we’ve dealt with, and this sort of thing always blows over.

“This is who you’re dating?” Mr. Dressel stands up. “This woman who goes on television and criticizes the people who buy your brand?”

“A woman who wears DSW and NordstromRack?” Mr. Jimenez says. “Really?”

I shrug. “So she’s frugal. People should appreciate that she’s relatable.”

“Oh, plenty of people do,” Mr. Jimenez says. “In fact, they’re touting her as the Evita of the fashion industry.”

I snort. “Does that make me an authoritarian dictator?”

“You think this is funny?” Mr. Dressel asks. “We told you to find a girlfriend so you could grow the brand. Instead your girlfriend, so-called, is desecrating it.”

“Be careful what you wish for, er, demand?” I sigh. “You’re all overreacting.”

“You have to break up with her immediately,” Mrs. Yaltzinger says, “which should be immediately obvious. Most of the rabble who are jeering and commenting on her video aren’t the type of people who would buy Sacrifice Nothing, but who knows what else she’ll say?”

“Look.” I don’t get angry often, but when I do. . . “You barged in here and started ordering me to date to inspire a launch I had no desire to make. Then you set me up on a date with an awful woman who I couldn’t bear for even a full meal, much less more. And now that I have met someone, someone I really, really like, you’re telling me I have to dump her, because what? Becauseshe’s not a socialite who has thousands to blow on overpriced luxury goods?”

“Like it or not, you’re the purveyor of those overpriced luxury goods.” The vein in Mr. Dressel’s forehead is throbbing. “So, yes. We’re telling you to dump her.”

“Or else?” I ask. “Or else. . .what?”

“You retained control of your company since the IPO,” Mr. Dressel says. “Mostly. And I hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but I’d just like to point out that you yourself retained only forty-five percent of the stock.”

“My parents own another ten percent,” I say. “And there’s no way?—”

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