“I just don’t know.” Sara takes a sip of her wine, then stares at the glass. “It’s a lot of money to turn down. It could change everything for me. For my family. And for Robbie.”

“Yeah, but think about how much more we could do, how much more we could make, if we build this thing? Cashing out now is something that we might really regret.”

“I really don’t think I’ll regret making a million dollars, Braden. We could end up with nothing if we don’t take this. And I get that it’s different for you, that you...have the comfort to take the risk for the big payout. But for some of us, this means not stressing about college anymore, it means helping my parents retire someday. And hell, for Roberto, it could mean helping his parents reunite.” She pushes the wineglass farther away from her. “I just don’t think you understand the ridiculousness of debating five million or one million dollars when to some people, money stress means not being sure how to budget for both utilities and food this month. It’s different for him, and I think it’s something we need to respect.”

“I’m sorry.” I shake my head, reaching for my wineglass. “I’m not compromising the future of our company because his family hasn’t worked as hard as mine.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s not my fault he’s poor.”

“Did you really just say that?” Her voice is at least an octave higher than it was before.

I shrug, my glass still at my lips. What? “What did I say?” I set down my wineglass.

She just looks at me as if she’s disgusted. God, women—it’s not enough to constantly try to please them and apologize for everything. We have to guess what they’re mad about too.

“You’re unbelievable,” she says. “Are you really so self-centered, so narrow-minded, that you can really think that? That you don’t see that his family has sacrificed so much for their son? And worked so hard? That it is just luck and privilege and...geography that separates his situation from yours?”

“Sara, you’re making a scene.” I put my hand over hers.

She pulls her hand away like I’ve burned her. She reaches for the clutch I bought for her.

“Where are you going?”

“Home,” she says. “I’ll just call an Uber.”

She takes off toward the door, heels clicking, as the Congresswoman takes the stage. Everyone stands to clap, and I weave through the crowd after Sara.

I push through the door, and the roar of the room is replaced by the sound of her footsteps echoing down the hallway.

“Sara!” I yell.

She stops and looks over her shoulder but doesn’t walk toward me.