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“Look, the point is that it’s still only been a few days. Clearly they were slow news days, but if you just give it a bit more time, I’m sure?—”

“You said we were right on track with the women’s select launch,” Mrs. Yaltzinger says. “If that’s the case, around the time this dies down, that should kick it back to life.” She arches one imperious eyebrow.

“What do you want me to do?” I ask. “Stop dating the first woman I’ve liked because?—”

“Because it’s bad for business?” Mr. Dressel asks. “Because if that’s what you’re asking, then yes. That’s exactly what we want you to do. If our stock price drops again, or if the news outlets keep sharing her video and ill-advised quote, we’re going to move for a vote of no confidence. On Friday.”

“Tomorrow,” I say. “You’re going to move for a vote of no confidence over the person who created this brand, the person who has shown consistent profits, even through this public transition, because I’m dating aperfectly wonderful woman? She’s not a crackhead. She’s not a miscreant. She said ‘sacrifice is good,’ which anyone with half a brain will know is true. Our brand may be called Sacrifice Nothing, but we don’treallymean that. Everyone knows that to succeed, you make sacrifices.”

“It is strange,” Mr. Jimenez says. “It’s almost like someone is fanning the flames, but who would do that?”

“I mean, why would they?” Mr. Dressel asks.

But when I finally shoo them out, having made no progress on calming them down, I can’t help thinking about what he said.Who wouldfan the flames of the dinky little nothing story of Bea spouting off her thoughts on my company’s name?

Who?

I mean, her grandfather comes to mind, since they didn’t seem to love each other, and she does have his last name. Cipriani. I type it into the search box, and stories on Beatrice Cipriani, granddaughter of New York’s governor, pop up at the top of every search.

All the media outlets are describing her as a woman of the people—down-to-earth and sensible, a real champion of integrity and frugality. They’re all asking why on earth she would date me. Apparently, without knowing it, I’ve become a symbol of all that’s wrong with America. Overpriced shoes for the wealthy. Overpriced wristwatches for people who are out of touch with reality. Jewelry for men who don’t care about human rights.

Which is ridiculous.

All our diamonds are cruelty free.

All our clothing is sustainable.

We donate five percent of our proceeds from several of our lines to various charities. My stupid luxury brand company gives back. We do our part.

Not that anyone is posting anything about that.

The real question is. . .why? Because the more I look into it, the stranger I find it. Sure, they did an article on me a few months ago that made my face a little more recognizable. It happened right after the company went public and my total worth became easier for people to ballpark. But the coverage at the time was largely very positive. So why the smear campaign now?

I have two in-person meetings and four calls set up today to line up our Women’s Select vendors, and then several interviews for possible Dream-Makers, which is what the board thinks we should call the team who will be choosing clothing, shoes, jewelry, and makeup for women who opt in. But in between a call and a meeting, I have an idea.

I’ve never been someone who sits around, waiting for things to happen to me. All the success I’ve found, I’ve created. I decide to gamble a bit, and I call the Governor’s office.

“Governor Cipriani’s office,” a perky woman says.

“Hello, there. My name is Easton Moorland, the CEO of Sacrifice Nothing. I’m dating Governor Cipriani’s granddaughter, and I thought he might spare a minute to talk to me.”

“Oh,” the woman says. “I’ve seen your photos online.” She giggles.

Giggles.

I sigh. “Yes, well, is there any chance I could chat with the governor sometime today?”

“He’s very busy, but I’ll check with his assistant and let you know. Would you like to leave a number?”

I’m suddenly a smidge uneasy giving Miss Giggles my phone number, but I do it. Shortly after, I’m drowning in pitches again, but I’m halfway through an interviewwhen my assistant pokes her head into the conference room. “Mr. Moorland?”

The guy we’re interviewing freezes.

“The governor’s on the phone for you?” She looks a little shocked.

“The governor?” The interviewee has wide eyes.

It does feel a little strange. The owner of every designer label could call here, sure, but the governor? It’s surreal. “I’ll be right there.” I stand. “Do you mind waiting?”

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