A poor mechanic fixed a stranger girl’s car for free, unaware she’s a millionaire CEO. A few hours later, he gets the shock of his life…

I was under a rusted old Chevy, the kind of job that made my back ache and my hands perpetually smell like oil, when I heard the unmistakable sound of a car sputtering to a stop right outside my garage. A sharp, panicked voice followed. Hello? Is anyone here? Sliding out from under the car, I wiped my hands on my already grease-stained overalls and turned to see her

Young. Out of place in this part of town. Her heels clicking nervously against the concrete as she approached.

My car broke down, she said, gesturing to the sleek black coupe parked haphazardly at the curb. It didn’t belong here. Neither did she.

Looks like you’re in the right place, I said, keeping my voice neutral, though the contrast between her polished appearance and the dingy surroundings wasn’t lost on me. Pop the hood. Let me take a look.

She hesitated, glancing at her phone like she might have somewhere better to be. Can you fix it quickly? I’m on a schedule. Let’s see what I’m working with first, I replied, already grabbing my tools.

As I inspected the engine, it became clear she had no idea what she was doing with cars. When I pointed out that the radiator was nearly dry and a few connections were loose, she bit her lip. Can you fix it or not? I can fix it, I said, suppressing a grin, but it might take a couple of hours.

She groaned, pacing in those ridiculous heels. Fine. I’ll wait.

Her impatience was palpable, but I focused on the work. By the time I’d finished, it was nearly sunset, and she was leaning against the wall, scrolling on her phone. All done, I said, wiping my hands and standing up.

Her relief was visible. Finally. Thank you.

How much do I owe you? I gave her the number, a modest sum for what I’d done. She blinked, then rummaged in her designer bag, pulling out a thick wad of cash. Keep the change, she said curtly, handing me far more than I’d asked for.

That’s… too much, I started to protest, but she was already heading for the car. Consider it a tip. She called over her shoulder before driving off, the roar of her engine fading into the evening air.

I didn’t think much of it until later that night. The knock at my door came just as I was about to sit down with a cold beer and the game on TV. When I opened it, I was greeted by a man in a crisp suit, holding an envelope.

Mr. Daniels? Uh, yeah, I said warily, who’s asking? He extended the envelope toward me. I’m here on behalf of Miss Evelyn Carter. The name didn’t ring a bell until he added, the woman whose car you fixed earlier today.

I frowned, is something wrong with the repair? I told her everything should be running fine now. It’s not about the repair, he interrupted, his tone, unreadable. Miss Carter would like to thank you personally.

She’s a bit unconventional in how she does that. I glanced at the envelope, my gut twisting. This didn’t feel like a simple thank you.

Can I come in? The lawyer asked. I stepped aside, letting the lawyer in. He carried himself with the confidence of someone used to walking into million-dollar boardrooms, not a rundown mechanic’s house…