Harold noticed. He turned a page in his book, but his eyes weren't reading. They were tracking Diane as she walked back toward the galley. The engines started. The safety demonstration played on the screens.
Nobody watched. The cabin lights dimmed. Flight 2261 pushed back from the gate and climbed into the darkening Georgia sky. 20 Minutes later, Diane Ashford rolled the champagne cart out of the galley. Don Perinon, three bottles, seven glasses already set on the top shelf stems polished.
She started at row one, poured with a smile. Row three, a warm laugh. Row four, a compliment about the couple's matching scarves. She reached row two. Harold's glass was filled without a word, just a nod and a pour.
Then she pushed the cart right past Isaiah's seat. Didn't slow down, didn't glance, didn't hesitate. She moved past him the way you walk past a piece of furniture you've decided doesn't belong in the room. Isaiah watched the golden liquid fill every glass in the cabin except his. He raised one hand.
Excuse me, ma'am. I think you missed my row. Diane stopped the cart, not because she wanted to, because the man in 2A had spoken loud enough for the entire cabin to hear. She turned slowly, the kind of slow that isn't patience, it's performance. She wanted everyone to see her face before she spoke.
She wanted them to understand that whatever came next was justified. She looked at Isaiah Carter the way a store clerk looks at a teenager who just walked in with a backpack already guilty, already a problem, already not worth the benefit of the doubt. You didn't miss anything, ma'am. Isaiah's voice was calm, measured, the voice of a man who had been in rooms where billions were negotiated and had never once needed to raise it. I didn't miss anything.
Diane set the bottle down on the cart hard enough to rattle the glasses. Champagne services for passengers who belong in first class. She let the word hang in the air. Belong. She said it the way some people say a slur wrapped in politeness aimed at the throat.
Not for freeloaders who scam their way into seats they can't afford. The woman in 1A stopped scrolling her phone. The silver-haired man in 3B lowered his Wall Street Journal an inch. The cashmere couple in row four exchanged a look that said, "We're not getting involved." But Diane wasn't finished. She leaned one hand on the back of the seat in front of Isaiah.
Casual, territorial, the way a bouncer leans against a velvet rope. "You want to know what I think happened?" she tilted her head. I think someone gave you a code or you found a glitch in the app or maybe you sweet talked some gate agent who didn't know better. She tapped the cart with her fingernail. Because men like you don't fly first class.
Men like you don't sip do Perinon at 30,000 ft. That's not your world and deep down you know it. She smiled. The kind of smile that dares you to argue so she can prove you wrong. So let's stop pretending, shall we?