Flashback – Tech Forward Expo at the Cobo Center, Detroit, 1997
The showroom floor buzzed with a kind of hopeful chaos, flashing screens, humming generators, engineers talking over one another as corporate investors strolled past with lukewarm interest. It was the late '90s, and Detroit was trying to shed its rusted edges and shine again.
Miranda Halstead, daughter of the powerful and traditionalist Halstead banking dynasty, walked through the Cobo Center with silent precision. Her mother had dragged her here on behalf of their family trust, a discreet benefactor of several urban redevelopment projects and STEM programs. Dressed in a sharp ivory pantsuit and narrow heels, Miranda looked every bit the untouchable heiress she never intended to be.
She wasn't here for business rather to escape and to breathe.
And that's when the prototype rolled into her.
Clank. Thud. Scatter.
Her bag hit the floor and papers spilled in every direction. She stumbled back, bumping into a cardboard Ford display. The offending device, a metal trolley rig with wires and a blinking diagnostic screen, creaked to a halt at her feet.
"Oh shit! I'm..." the man pushing it stopped short, quickly reaching for the equipment before it tipped over. "Sorry."
Miranda knelt down with an exasperated sigh. "Watch where you're..."
She paused.
He wasn't like the others. Not a polished exec or some Ford heir. His hands were rough. His shirt which was rolled sleeves, oil stains, half tucked marked him as someone who belonged to the wiring, not the press briefings.
Richard Calhoun.
His name was stitched onto the breast of his badge. Beside it, the logo: Ford Special Electric Division / Vollen Group Joint Project.
"You alright?" he asked, already gathering her scattered papers with a clumsy kind of care.
"No broken bones," she muttered. "Just bruised pride."
"That I can't fix," he grinned, handing her a sheet of paper with a smudge of graphite on the edge. "Sorry about that."
She took it and their fingers brushed briefly. Static, whether from friction or something stranger.
"What is that thing?" she asked, nodding toward the cart now parked beside them.
"Prototype battery control system. We're testing it for the Ranger EV."
Her brow lifted. "The electric pickup?"
"Ford's experimenting with short-range EVs. California wants zero-emission fleet vehicles by next year. If this works, it'll be the first production electric truck to hit the market."
She blinked. She hadn't expected something… relevant or ambitious.
"Impressive," she said quietly.
"You don't sound impressed."
"I'm not easily convinced," she countered, rising to her feet again.
"Good," he replied, wiping his hand and offering it anyway. "Richard."
"Miranda."
"Miranda…?"
She gave him a polite smile. "Halstead."
His mouth opened slightly in shock.
"As in Halstead Capital, Halstead Trust, Halstead Loans?"
"You've done your homework."
"Only because they denied my scholarship application previously."
A beat of silence.
Miranda tried not to smile. "Well. Consider this... a re-introduction."
And just like that, the moment turned.
They didn't move for the next twenty minutes.
He explained his project, the custom voltage converters, the liquid-cooled battery pack built for a lightweight chassis, the experimental work Ford was too cautious to publicly back but eager to privately test.
She questioned the numbers, the application, the social reach. He didn't back down. Neither did she.
By the time her assistant found her, flustered and breathless, Miranda had already forgotten about the time.
All she remembered was the way he looked at her, not like a Halstead rather like a challenge.
And for the first time in years, she didn't feel like running.
*******************
One Week Later: Downtown Detroit – Rooftop Bar, Midtown
The sky over Detroit had softened into purple and gray, the skyline a mix of ambition and resilience. Neon signs flickered on as the first stars blinked overhead. On the twelfth-floor rooftop of The Metropolis Lounge, jazz spilled from corner speakers and the clink of glasses mingled with quiet conversation.
Miranda Halstead sat at a table near the edge, overlooking Woodward Avenue, her gaze distant but steady. She wore a silk blouse tucked into high-waisted trousers, elegant and effortless. Her drink, something citrusy and overpriced, remained untouched.
Then she saw him.
Richard Calhoun stepped off the elevator with hesitation. His shirt was crisp but plain, his shoes more functional than fashionable. He scanned the crowd until his eyes met her then he relaxed.
"You came," Miranda said as he reached the table.
"Thought about backing out," he admitted, pulling out the chair across from her.
"Because of me?"
"Because of what you represent," he replied. "But... not because of you."
She tilted her head, intrigued. "That's fair."
A waiter approached, and Richard ordered a local ale. Miranda waved her hand over her glass. Still untouched.
They talked for a while.
Richard shared how his love of mechanics started in his grandfather's garage in northern Michigan. How he built his first electric go-kart at fifteen. How he had sent applications everywhere, MIT, Caltech, and got into none because his transcript didn't shine like his inventions did. He'd applied for the Halstead STEM Grant too but got denied.
Miranda listened without judgment. She spoke of boarding schools, arranged internships, summer galas. Her whole life scheduled like a corporate merger. She confessed that she hated the legacy she was expected to carry. That this, tonight, was the first thing she'd chosen for herself in a long time.
He smiled at that. A soft, rare smile.
Then came the interruption.
"Miranda?"
They both turned.
A tall woman in pearls and a lilac shawl stepped out from the velvet rope marking the VIP area. She clearly hadn't expected to see her.
Miranda rose instinctively. "Mrs. Aldridge."
"Darling, I didn't think I'd actually run into you here." Her voice was warm but laced with practiced elegance. Then her eyes landed on Richard. Her smile dimmed. "And who's this? One of your father's interns?"
Miranda answered without hesitation. "This is Richard Calhoun. He's an engineer. He works with the Vollen Group and Ford."
The woman's brow arched. "Ah! Ford. Of course."
There was silence.
"I'll let you two get back to it," she said, her smile tightening before she walked off.
Richard leaned back in his chair. "Wow! I feel welcome."
"She's irrelevant," Miranda replied.
"She's your world."
"No. She's their world."
He studied her, torn between belief and doubt.
"You're not like them, Miranda," he finally said. "But you don't belong in my world either."
She reached across the table, her hand closing over his. He started to pull back, but she held firm.
"Don't let the way they see me make you forget how I saw you that day," she whispered. "You ran me over, remember? That wasn't a power move. That was fate."
Richard stared at her, something inside him softening.
"You still think we're fate?"
"I think... I want to find out."
The rooftop lights glowed golden above them.
And for a little while longer, the future didn't feel so impossible.