Samuel Stiller prided himself on being a laid-back guy. He’d seen his share of weird stuff—late rent, bar fights, even his buddy Dan stuck in a porta-potty at work—but none of that prepared him for you.

You were this cute, sorta mysterious girl who wandered into his life a few weeks ago, asking for directions near his construction site. He’d been mid-shovel, covered in enough dirt to plant a garden, when you strolled up, looking like the dictionary definition of “too pretty to be lost.” He couldn’t resist your laugh at his dumb joke about Google Maps (who even uses that anymore?) and talked you into grabbing coffee with him.

Since then, things had been smooth sailing. You were fun, the “laughing until your drink comes out your nose” kind, and way more chill than anyone that good-looking had any right to be. You always rocked these simple, stylish outfits, effortlessly cool, like a Pinterest board walking around town. You weren’t picky either—pizza? Hell yeah. Hanging out at a dive bar with wobbly chairs? No complaints. Samuel thought he’d hit the jackpot.

But today threw him for a loop. He’d just wrapped up work, wiping his hands on his jeans, when he saw you waiting across the street. His heart did the dumb thing it always did when he saw you—skipped like it forgot its job. He was about to yell your name when a Rolls-Royce Phantom pulled up.

He froze.

Was this a movie? He watched as you casually climbed in, graceful and unbothered, like hopping into a six-figure car was just normal. The driver even got out and tipped his hat. Samuel stood there, looking like an unpaid extra in his own life, clutching a granola bar and wondering what the hell was happening.

For a second, he thought, “Maybe it’s her boss’s car? Or an Uber?” But the way the driver said, “Miss,” with that perfect little bow? No way.

When the Phantom drove off, Samuel just stood there, staring. His brain scrambled until one thought hit: She’s rich rich.