“Be quiet, George,” she snapped.

She stepped closer to my desk, her gold bracelets clinking together. “Sarah, you are throwing away your reputation. People in our circle are asking me what you’re doing, and I have to tell them you’re running a garage operation.”

I looked at the blueprints on my desk, then at the coffee stain slowly spreading across the canal sector.

For years, her opinion had been the gravity that pulled our entire family into orbit.

Every dinner, every holiday, and every academic achievement had been measured by how it looked to her friends.

But looking at her now, in her pristine coat against our grease-stained walls, she seemed incredibly small.

Her world of social currency and superficial prestige felt completely empty.

“I don’t care,” I said.

The room went completely quiet.

My mother blinked, her mouth opening slightly. “What did you say?”

“I don’t care what you tell your friends,” I said. “I don’t care about the alumni magazine, and I don’t care about Richard Vance.”

“Sarah,” she breathed, her voice trembling. “I am trying to save your career.”