Chapter 3
Archer
I sat in the back row of Professor Rashford’s corporate restructuring lecture.
The professor was talking about fiduciary duty and shareholder value maximization, drawing diagrams on the whiteboard that most students were barely paying attention to.
A guy in the third row openly scrolled through his phone.
Two girls near the window were passing notes back and forth, giggling quietly.
The kid next to me had his laptop open to what looked like an online poker game.
I’d audited this class twice before and could probably teach it myself at this point, but I kept coming back anyway.
My notebook sat open in front of me, pen ready, neat handwriting trailing off mid-thought about ethical frameworks. The page looked pathetic, half-finished thoughts about corporate responsibility and stakeholder impact that didn’t actually solve anything.
Professor Rashford was good at what he did.
He made dry legal concepts feel relevant, pulled real cases into his lectures, asked questions that made students squirm because there weren’t easy answers.
Today he was talking about a case where a company had technically followed all legal requirements but still managed to screw over hundreds of people in the process.
“Legal doesn’t always mean ethical,” he said, tapping the board. “And that’s where you come in. As lawyers, as business leaders, as people with power—you have to ask yourself if following the letter of the law is enough when the spirit of it is clearly being violated.”
A few students nodded. Most looked like they were waiting for him to get to the part that would be on the exam.
I wrote down what he’d said word for word, then stared at it.
Legal doesn’t always mean ethical.
Yeah. I was intimately familiar with that particular problem.
Jake thought I was losing it, spending my time in lectures like this when I had an entire legal team on retainer. Last week over drinks, he’d leaned back in his chair and given me that look, the one that said he was about to tell me something I didn’t want to hear.
“You already know this stuff,” he’d said, gesturing at me with his beer. “You have lawyers. Multiple expensive lawyers. Why are you sitting through undergraduate lectures like you’re twenty again?”
I hadn’t had a good answer, or rather I’d had one I didn’t want to say out loud.
That I was looking for something, some framework for understanding the distance between intention and harm.
Some way to reconcile that my company’s success was built on decisions I’d made before I understood what they cost other people.
That Devlin Holdings had done exactly what Professor Rashford was describing. Followed the letter of the law while violating every ethical principle.
And I’d been the one signing off on it.
Jake wouldn’t understand that. He’d tell me I was overthinking it, that business was business, that I couldn’t save the world by auditing law school classes and taking notes about corporate responsibility.
He was probably right, which somehow made it worse.
My board certainly thought so. They thought I was distracted, soft, too focused on optics and reform instead of profit margins.
There had been quiet suggestions lately that maybe I wasn’t the right person to lead Devlin Holdings into its next phase of growth.
That maybe my father’s vision required someone more willing to make the hard choices.
The hard choices. That’s what they called it when you displaced families to build luxury condos.
I was starting to wonder if they were right, if inheriting my father’s company had been a mistake, if trying to reform it from within was naive.
“Alright,” Professor Rashford said, closing his laptop. “That’s it for today. Read the Harris case for Wednesday and be prepared to discuss whether corporate restructuring can ever be truly ethical or if it’s just legalized theft with better PR.”
Students started packing up immediately, that familiar rustle of laptops closing and bags zipping. Someone knocked over a water bottle and it rolled down the aisle. A group near the door was already making plans for drinks later, their voices carrying across the room.
I took my time organizing my notes, letting the room clear out. I preferred anonymity here, where most students assumed I was a grad student or maybe a TA auditing for research purposes. No one knew my name and no one cared.
It was the most freedom I’d felt in years.
The lecture hall had that particular smell all classrooms seemed to have—old wood and whiteboard markers and coffee someone had spilled last week.
Afternoon light came through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the rows of desks.
Outside I could hear the campus coming alive between classes, voices and footsteps and that low hum of people constantly moving.
I liked it here. Liked being anonymous, being just another person trying to learn something. No board meetings, no investor calls, no careful navigation of corporate politics where every word mattered.
Just me, a notebook, and questions I still didn’t have answers for.
I gathered my things and headed for the door, already thinking about the nonprofit meeting I had later. We were working on a housing initiative for displaced tenants, trying to create pathways for people who’d been forced out of their neighborhoods by development projects.
Trying to fix problems my company had helped create.
The irony wasn’t lost on me.
I stepped into the hallway and nearly collided with someone rushing past.
The woman stopped short, her leather tote swinging forward with momentum. Annotated files spilled out, color-coded tabs and bright sticky notes marking important pages.
She wore practical slacks and a soft blouse with sleeves rolled to her elbows, dark hair pulled back in a braid coming loose from the day.
“Sorry,” I started to say, looking up—and my entire world stopped.
Dark braid. Expressive brown eyes. That same sharp, aware intelligence I remembered from three years ago—still completely captivating.
The woman from the terrace.
She looked up at me and I watched recognition hit her the same way it was hitting me, watched her eyes go wide and her lips part slightly in surprise.
For a second, neither of us moved. The hallway continued around us. Normal college chaos that suddenly felt very far away.
“Archie?”
My name came out uncertain, like she wasn’t sure she was remembering correctly.
“Gianna.”
I breathed her name back, and it felt like the first real thing I’d said in three years.
She was here. In law school. She’d actually done it.
Three years ago, I’d been at that hotel to handle business. A property acquisition that needed my signature, meetings that couldn’t wait even though I’d wanted nothing more than to go home and sleep for twelve hours straight.
I’d been tired and irritated and ready to leave when I’d run into Hector Valdez in the lobby.
We’d exchanged pleasantries, brief updates on mutual investments and upcoming projects. He’d mentioned celebrating something with his staff, and I’d been about to make my excuses and leave when I’d seen her.
She’d been standing near the private dining room, talking to an older woman who was clearly emotional about something. Then she’d said something that made the woman laugh through tears, this beautiful moment of connection I’d watched from across the lobby.
She’d been beautiful in a way that made me forget whatever I’d been thinking about.
Not just physically, though she was that too. Dark hair, expressive face, this presence that drew your attention and held it. But something about the way she carried herself, the way she’d smiled at the woman with such genuine warmth made me unable to look away.
I’d asked Hector who she was without meaning to, the question coming out before I could stop it.
“My home secretary ,” he’d said.
I’d watched her slip away from the celebration after a while, watched her head toward the terrace like she needed air.
And I’d followed her.
Not in a creepy way, I’d told myself. Just curious.
Just wanting to understand why she’d captivated me so completely in the span of five minutes.
The terrace had been cool when I’d stepped out, and she’d been standing at the railing, staring at the city like she was trying to memorize it.
“Sorry,” I’d said. “Didn’t realize anyone was out here.”
She’d turned and looked at me, and something had clicked into place that I hadn’t even known was missing.
And I’d told her things I’d never told anyone.
When she’d kissed me, when we’d stumbled back into my room and fallen into bed together, it had been the best night of my life.
Not just the physical part, though that had been incredible.
But the connection, the honesty, the feeling of being completely seen by someone who had no agenda, no reason to pretend.
I’d meant what I’d said the next morning. That I didn’t want it to end.
But when I woke up, she was gone. No note, no number, just the memory of her name and the feeling that I’d let something important slip through my fingers.
I’d tried to find her. Called Hector casually a few weeks later and asked how his former employee was doing, if she’d settled into school okay. He’d said she was great, thriving, and hadn’t offered any more information. I couldn’t exactly explain why I was asking without making things weird.
So I’d let it go. Told myself it had been one perfect night and that was enough, that some things were better left as memories.
But I’d thought about her constantly. Wondered if she was okay, if law school was everything she’d hoped, if she’d found whatever she was looking for.
And now she was standing in front of me in a NYU Law hallway, looking at me like she couldn’t quite believe I was real.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, then immediately looked embarrassed, color rising in her cheeks. “I mean, obviously people have reasons to be at law school. I just didn’t expect to see you.”
God, even flustered she was beautiful.
“I’ve been auditing classes,” I said quickly, trying to sound normal even though my heart was doing something stupid in my chest. “It helps with my work.”
“Oh.” She seemed to accept this, nodding slowly. “That makes sense.”
I couldn’t stop staring at her. Three years and she was even more beautiful than I remembered, but different too. More confident maybe, or just more settled into herself. Less weighed down. She looked good, healthy, like she’d found whatever she’d been searching for that night.
“You’re here,” I said, stating the obvious. “You went back to school.”
“Final semester,” she confirmed, and pride colored her voice. “Working at the legal aid clinic mostly. Tenant rights cases.”
Something warm moved through my chest—pride, admiration, and something deeper that felt too big for a hallway conversation.
“That’s incredible,” I said, meaning it completely. “I knew you’d do it.”
Her mouth curved slightly, amused. “You didn’t really know anything about me.”
“I knew enough.”
The words came out confidently and I watched her react to them, her eyes search mine like she was trying to figure out if I was serious, if I remembered everything as clearly as she did.
I was completely serious. I remembered everything.
The way she’d laughed when I’d stepped on her foot while dancing. The way she’d looked at the city like it was both terrifying and full of possibility. The way she’d fallen apart in my arms and put herself back together in the morning. The way she’d left without saying goodbye.
I remembered all of it.
“Do you want to get coffee?” The question came out before I could think better of it, before I could talk myself out of it or convince myself this was a bad idea. “If you have time. I’d just like to catch up.”
My heart was doing something embarrassing in my chest, nervous energy I hadn’t felt in years. I didn’t get nervous easily. Boardroom negotiations, hostile acquisitions, investor presentations where millions of dollars hung on every word—none of it made me nervous.
But standing here asking Gianna if she wanted coffee was making my pulse race like I was eighteen and asking someone to prom.
She hesitated and I held my breath, watching her think it through. She was probably busy, probably had a million things to do, probably had every reason to say no to a guy she’d spent one night with three years ago.
Then she smiled, and it was like the sun coming out.
“Coffee sounds good.“