“She’ll be asleep.”
“Yes.”
“Then?”
“I told her I’d make breakfast.”
The CEO almost argued.
Stopped herself.
“You’re serious.”
“Always about breakfast.”
She smiled.
“Will you come back?”
“At eight.”
“I’ll send a car.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I own a truck.”
She looked toward him.
“You are exhausting.”
“So I’ve been told.”
He walked toward the hangar exit.
She called after him.
“Single Dad.”
He turned.
The CEO lifted the old notebook.
“My father’s rule.”
“What about it?”
“Does it still apply?”
The Single Dad looked at the jet.
Then at her.
“Only if you decide it does.”
He left.
The Billionaire CEO remained in the hangar until almost four.
Her executives repeatedly suggested she go home.
She refused.
For years, she had believed executive leadership meant making decisions from incomplete information.
That was true.
But she was beginning to recognize a dangerous extension of the idea.
Powerful people became so accustomed to acting with incomplete information that they sometimes began treating missing information as irrelevant.
The Single Dad did the opposite.
Missing information stopped him.
It looked slow.
Expensive.
Difficult.
And tonight it had possibly prevented an unverified flight-control component from entering service.
At 4:08, Internal Audit called.
They had found something.
The approved supplier had been acquired eighteen months earlier by a private holding company.
Since then, procurement prices dropped.
Delivery times improved.
Quality documentation remained perfect.
Almost too perfect.
One aviation-services manager had raised concerns nine months earlier.
His report was closed locally.
Reason:
No confirmed nonconformance.
The Billionaire CEO stared.
No confirmed nonconformance.
The same logic she had used against the Single Dad.
If there was no proven defect, continue.
That phrase suddenly sounded dangerous.
“Who closed the report?”
She asked.
A Regional Procurement Director.
“Preserve everything.”
“Emails.”
“Vendor communications.”
“Payment records.”
“Inspection reports.”
“And do not warn the supplier.”
At seven-thirty, she showered inside the executive facility.
Changed clothes.
Returned to the hangar before eight.
The Single Dad arrived at 8:04 carrying coffee.
For himself.
Not her.
She watched him enter.
“You’re late.”
“Four minutes.”
“You said eight.”
“I have a child.”
“That apparently explains everything.”
“Most things.”
He placed his toolbox down.
She noticed a small paper bag.
“What’s that?”
“Breakfast.”
“For?”
“Me.”
She stared.
He opened it.
Breakfast burrito.
The Billionaire CEO looked offended.
“You didn’t bring me one.”
“You have assistants.”
She laughed.
“You are genuinely terrible at impressing women.”
The Single Dad bit into the burrito.
“You came back.”
She stopped.
He continued eating.