Jennifer stared at the document, her face contorting as she read. Purchase agreement between Gulfream Aerospace Corporation and Diane Cooper, CEO of Cooper Technologies. Purchase price $65,200,000. Delivery date June 15th, 2024. The signatures were there.
The notary seal, every legal detail confirming ownership. And this, Diane said, swiping to another document, insurance policy. Notice the named insured. Diane Cooper doing business as Cooper Technologies. And this another swipe registration with the Federal Aviation Administration.
Tail number November 650. Delta Charlie. Owner Diane Cooper. The co-pilot standing behind Jennifer whispered something Diane couldn't hear. Jennifer's shoulders slumped.
She stepped aside, finally clearing the doorway. I'm so sorry, Miss Cooper. I made a terrible mistake. Please forgive me. Her voice cracked on the last word.
Diane stepped into the cabin, her legs feeling weak. She walked past Jennifer without responding, past the shocked faces of the crew toward her usual seat in the main cabin. The interior of the aircraft, which had always felt like a sanctuary, now felt contaminated. Every beautiful detail, the leather seats, the mahogany trim, the technology she had been so proud of, all of it was tainted by the morning's events. She sank into her seat, and only then did her hands start shaking uncontrollably.
The phone nearly slipped from her grasp. Behind her, she could hear Jennifer crying softly, Richard speaking in low, urgent tones to the crew. The co-pilot was making apologies. Another flight attendant was asking if they could bring her anything, but Diane heard it all as if from a great distance. She stared at the bulkhead, seeing nothing, feeling the weight of 25 years pressing down on her shoulders.
25 years of being the only black woman in boardrooms. 25 years of having her credentials questioned. 25 years of being asked if she was really qualified, really belonged, really earned her place. And now, at the pinnacle of her success, standing on her own private jet purchased with money she had earned through brilliance and relentless hard work, she still had to prove she belonged. The cabin settled into an awful silence.
Captain Richards had retreated to the cockpit, presumably to complete pre-flight checks, though Diane suspected he was also avoiding the toxic atmosphere in the main cabin. Jennifer stood near the galley, her face blotchy from crying, occasionally sneaking glances at Diane. The co-pilot and the other flight attendant had made themselves scarce, disappearing into their workstations. Diane sat in a cream leather seat, the finest money could buy, and felt none of the pride or joy she had anticipated for this flight. Instead, she felt exhausted, bone deep, soulcrushing exhaustion.
She thought about her mother coming home from cleaning houses, her hands raw from chemicals. Her mother had endured casual racism everyday, sllights and insults from the people whose toilets she scrubbed. She had smiled and said, "Yes, ma'am, and no, sir. " and swallowed her dignity because she needed the money to feed her children. Diane had promised herself she would never have to do that. She would build something so successful, become so accomplished that people would have no choice but to respect her.
But here she sat in a jet she owned outright, having spent the morning being treated like a criminal trying to steal access to a space that was legally, financially completely hers. Success hadn't protected her. Money hadn't shielded her. Even at the top, she was still just a black woman in spaces where black women weren't supposed to be. Her phone buzzed.
A text from Catherine. Everything okay? Captain Richards usually confirms wheels up by now. Diane stared at the message, unsure how to respond. Was everything okay?