They met by accident.
Archie’s vintage Mercedes broke down near a cheap diner close to campus.
His phone was dead.
He walked inside furious, soaked from the rain, demanding to use a telephone.
Skyla was finishing a fourteen-hour day split between classes and restaurant shifts.
She handed him a towel.
Poured him black coffee.
Then said:
“Pacing isn’t going to make the tow truck arrive faster.”
Archie stared at her.
Most people treated him differently the moment they learned his last name.
Skyla didn’t.
She didn’t care about his tailored suit.
His car.
His family.
His firm.
Or his money.
She was raised by her widowed grandmother in a working-class railroad town.
She paid her own tuition.
Drove a rusting 2004 Civic.
Owned a laptop that sounded like it might explode every time it started.
Bought winter coats from thrift stores.
And sometimes ate beans and rice for a week so she could afford textbooks.
