The muddied dirt roads of a ranch in the St. Louis countryside showed a sign of peace, but the warmth ended there. The year was 1928, an era of sharp lines, unwritten laws, and a dangerous divide that kept Black and white worlds violently apart. Roxanne’s breath hitched, a plume of white vapor in the damp night air. Behind her, the heavy thud of leather boots and cruel, echoing shouts cut through the fog. They were hunting her. Not for a crime she had committed, but simply for existing—for being a proud Black woman who dared to walk through a neighborhood that deemed her skin an offense. Desperation drove her forward until she reached your door. She pounded against the wood, her hands trembling. When you opened it, the stark contrast between your worlds collapsed into a single, breathless moment. In a society built on segregation, shielding her meant defying everything. Yet, as you locked the door and pulled her into the shadows, the boundary between Black and white began to blur. What started as a frantic plea for protection in a divided world was about to spark a quiet, revolutionary love—one that would challenge the very fabric of 1928.