Mr. Carter, I I didn't I had no idea. Isaiah didn't look at her. He hadn't looked at her since the champagne hit his shirt, and he wasn't going to start now. He turned to Captain Witford.
Captain, I'd like a glass of champagne. His voice was the same as it had been all flight, level, calm, unmoved. And I'd like you to make sure these three don't touch a single glass, a single cart, or a single passenger on this aircraft for the rest of this flight. Yes, sir. Immediately, Captain Whitford walked to the galley himself, he took the dome Perinong from the cart, the same bottle Diane had used as a weapon.
He poured a glass with steady hands, walked it back to seat 2A, and handed it to Isaiah Carter, the way champagne should have been handed to him an hour ago. Isaiah took it, raised it slightly. Not a toast, not a celebration, just an acknowledgement. He took one sip, set the glass on the armrest, and turned back to the window. Behind him, Harold Bennett uncrossed his legs, stood slowly, and began to clap.
It started as a single sound, one pair of hands. The retired attorney who had watched everything said his peace and waited for the verdict. The silver-haired man in 3B joined. Then the woman in 1A, then the cashmere couple. One by one, the first class cabin of flight 2261 broke into applause.
Not the polite kind you give at a presentation, but the real kind, the kind that comes from the chest, the kind that means something. Isaiah didn't turn around. He didn't acknowledge the applause. He sipped his champagne and watched the clouds. Behind the galley curtain, Diane Ashford pressed her back against the wall, slid down to the floor, and cried.
Greg Nolan stood next to her, staring at his shoes, saying nothing. Understanding for the first time that 12 years of following someone else's orders didn't make him innocent, it made him complicit. Flight 2261 touched down at JFK at 8:47 p. M. The wheels hit the tarmac with a shutter that ran through the cabin.
The overhead bins rattled. The seat belt sign clicked on. And for the first time in an hour, the first class cabin felt like a normal flight again. It wasn't. Through the cockpit window, Captain Whitford could already see them.
Two SUVs parked on the tarmac near the jet bridge. Black, unmarked, the kind of vehicles that only show up when corporate isn't sending a welcome party. Standing next to them were four people in dark suits. Two from HR, two from legal. They had been dispatched from Prestige Atlantic's Manhattan headquarters 40 minutes ago before the landing gear had even deployed.
The door opened. The jet bridge connected with a dull thud. Diane Ashford walked out first, not by choice. Captain Whitford had instructed her to deplane before the passengers. She walked down the jet bridge with her vest still pressed up, her scarf still pinned, her name badge still catching the fluorescent light overhead.
She walked the way a person walks to a sentencing. The HR director was waiting at the end, a woman in a black blazer with a tablet in her hand and an expression that had been rehearsed for situations exactly like this. Miss Ashford, your employment with Prestige Atlantic Airlines is terminated effective immediately. Please surrender your crew identification and security badge. Diane's fingers trembled as she unclipped the gold name badge from her vest, the badge she had polished every morning for 12 years.