Not remorse.
Not yet.
Confusion.
Perhaps he had expected a billionaire’s daughter to want power as much as he did.
She had wanted Seat 2A.
Nothing more.
The door closed.
Minutes later, the aircraft pushed away from the gate.
Maya watched the terminal slide backward.
The engines rose.
Flight 417 entered the runway.
Then Chicago fell beneath them.
For the first twenty minutes, nobody in First Class spoke much.
The tension remained.
Claire served drinks.
When she reached Maya, she asked:
“Apple juice?”
Maya nodded.
“Please.”
Whitmore ordered whiskey.
Double.
Claire served exactly what he requested.
No more.
No less.
Maya noticed.
Halfway through the climb, a passenger from row three leaned forward.
A middle-aged Black man in a navy sweater.
“I hope you don’t mind me saying something.”
Maya turned.
He smiled.
“You handled that better than most adults would.”
Maya shrugged.
“My hands were shaking.”
“That counts more.”
She remembered the Young Farm Woman in some story? No. Keep it aviation. She smiled.
“Thank you.”
Whitmore looked out toward the aisle but said nothing.
After meal service, Maya opened a book.
She tried reading.
Could not focus.
The incident replayed.
His command.
Claire’s hesitation.
The tablet message.
The moment everyone learned Bennett.
She hated how quickly the air had changed.
Before the name:
Child.
After the name:
Important.
That frightened her more than Whitmore had.
She called her father using onboard Wi-Fi messaging.
Maya: I’m still mad.
Marcus responded almost immediately.
Dad: Good.
She frowned.
Maya: Good?
Dad: Anger can point at something. Just don’t let it drive forever.
She rolled her eyes.
Adults loved sentences like that.
Then:
Maya: Did you know about the VIP note system?
There was no answer for almost a minute.
Then:
Dad: Not that version.
Maya stared.
Maya: That sounds lawyer-ish.
Dad: Fair.
Another message.
Dad: I knew we had recovery notes for high-value travelers. I did not know they were being used to encourage rule-bending that disadvantages other customers.
Maya thought.
Maya: Is that still your fault?
Long pause.
Dad: Yes.
That answer mattered.
She closed the message thread.
Across the aisle, Whitmore slept.
His newspaper had slipped onto the floor.
Maya noticed.
She stared at it.
Then bent down.
Picked it up.
Placed it on his side console.