Chapter 3 - The View from Seat 2A
At thirty-two thousand feet, the seatbelt sign chimed off with a double electronic tone.
Up in the forward cabin, Vanessa Vance was preening like a peacock on a runway.
She was thirty-one, wearing an overly tailored purser uniform with an unbuttoned silk blouse, a gold Horizon Continental nameplate gleaming on her lapel, her hair styled in voluminous blonde waves. She was parading up and down the first-class aisle, offering complimentary pours of Dom Pérignon to anyone who made eye contact, holding her left hand awkwardly high so the three-carat diamond caught the overhead LED reading lamps.
“Thank you! Oh, you’re so sweet!” Vanessa trilled to an executive in Seat 3C, her voice carrying easily through the quiet cabin. “Tyler is just the most romantic man in the world. He’s been trapped in an arranged, loveless corporate marriage for nine years. His wife is this completely plain, bitter woman who never supported his ambitions. But we’re building an entirely new life in Chicago now. My brother Marcus is promoting Tyler to Chief Fleet Captain next month.”
The executive forced a polite, uncomfortable smile, looking back down at his tablet.
Behind them, sitting in Row 7, was a prominent regional business correspondent for The Chicago Tribune, his fingers already tapping furiously against his smartphone keyboard, drafting an article about the bizarre cockpit declaration.
Down in Row 28, Mason sat with his arms crossed over his small chest, staring at the cabin carpet.
“Mom,” Mason whispered, tugging on my sleeve. “Is Vanessa the lady who was at the company picnic last summer? The one who told you your shoes looked cheap?”
I looked at my son, a faint, bitter chuckle catching in my throat.
“Yes, baby,” I replied softly. “That was her.”
Last July, at the annual Horizon Continental Family Field Day in Dallas, Vanessa had stood near the VIP pavilion, completely unaware of who I was. Seeing me in simple denim jeans and white sneakers while I watched Mason play on the inflatable obstacle course, she had made a snide remark to two flight attendants about “wives who let themselves go while their pilot husbands conquer the skies.”
She hadn't known that the VIP pavilion was paid for by my family’s trust.
She hadn't known that Tyler had begged me not to wear designer clothes to company events because he “wanted to seem like a relatable, self-made captain to the union reps.”
Tyler had spent nine years playing the humble, hardworking pilot who pulled himself up by his bootstraps, while quietly siphoning millions from my family’s estate to fund his private lifestyle.
The forward galley curtain parted.
The reinforced titanium cockpit door clicked unlocked with a pneumatic hiss:
CLICK-CH-CH.
Tyler stepped out of the flight deck, handing the controls over to his first officer, young First Lieutenant Brian Miller.
Tyler wore his four-stripe captain’s jacket, his gold aviator wings gleaming beneath the cabin lights, his dark hair slicked back with expensive pomade. He had that broad, handsome, arrogant swagger of a man who believed he was an untouchable king of the skies.
He walked straight to Seat 2A.
Vanessa stood up, throwing her arms around his neck, pressing her lips against his cheek in an exaggerated, theatrical display of affection in front of thirty watching passengers.
“Captain Holloway,” Vanessa purred loud enough for rows one through ten to hear. “You’re completely insane. The whole cabin is talking about you.”
Tyler laughed—a rich, booming sound that made my stomach heave with revulsion:
“Let them talk, babe,” Tyler sneered, slipping his arm possessively around her waist. “When you’re the best pilot in the fleet, the company bends to your rules. My wife is probably sitting on the couch in Columbus right now cutting coupons. She doesn't have the courage to fight me. By the time she hires an attorney, our new Chicago penthouse will already be furnished.”
From Row 28, I watched the entire display with the cold, predatory detachment of a sniper looking through a thermal scope.
I didn't scream. I didn't cause a scene at thirty-two thousand feet.
An amateur makes a scene in the air.
A sovereign queen waits until the wheels touch the tarmac, the fuel lines are disconnected, and the trap snaps shut on the ground.
Tyler kissed Vanessa’s forehead, turned on his polished uniform shoes, and walked down the center aisle toward the rear lavatory, nodding with smug, self-satisfied condescension at the passengers who looked his way.
As he reached Row 20, he was looking down at his company iPad, checking fuel burn rates.
He took three more steps.
Row 26.
Row 27.
Row 28.
May you like
Tyler glanced casually to his left.
His eyes met mine.
