Diane reached for the Dom Pérignon—the same bottle she’d refused to pour for Isaiah. She pulled it off the cart and held it by the neck. Her eyes were fixed on the curtain that separated the galley from the cabin. “What are you doing?” Greg asked. Diane didn’t answer. She straightened her vest, adjusted her name badge, picked up a fresh glass in her other hand, and walked out of the galley toward row two. Greg watched her go. He thought about saying something. He thought about stepping in front of her. He thought about a lot of things. He didn’t do any of them. The bottle of Dom Pérignon caught the amber cabin light as Diane Ashford walked toward seat 2A. The golden liquid inside rocked gently with each step. Isaiah Carter was still looking out the window. He had no idea what was coming.
Diane Ashford walked through the first-class cabin the way she always did—chin up, shoulders back, smile in place. She stopped at row one, poured a second glass for the Chanel woman who accepted it without looking up from her phone. She topped off the silver-haired man in 3B who nodded. She offered more to the cashmere couple in row four who declined. Then she reached row two. Harold Bennett looked up at her. He didn’t want more champagne. He wanted to see what she was going to do. Diane didn’t acknowledge him. Her eyes were locked on Isaiah Carter, who was still facing the window, still motionless, still breathing with the kind of calm that made her skin crawl. She poured Harold’s glass anyway—slowly, deliberately. Then she lifted the bottle and turned toward Isaiah.
“You know,” she said, loud enough for the rows around her to hear, “I was thinking about what you said earlier—about missing your row.” Isaiah didn’t move. “Maybe you were right.” Diane’s voice had a sweetness to it now—the kind of sweetness that tastes wrong, like sugar poured over something rotten. “Maybe I did owe you a drink.” She tilted the bottle. The champagne didn’t land in a glass. There was no glass. Diane angled the neck of the Dom Pérignon directly over Isaiah’s lap and let the golden liquid pour—not splash, not spill—pour in a steady, deliberate stream onto the black cashmere of his polo shirt, soaking through the fabric, spreading across his thighs, dripping onto the cream leather seat. The entire cabin watched. The woman in 1A’s phone was already recording. The silver-haired man’s jaw was open. The cashmere couple had frozen mid-conversation. Harold Bennett’s hands were gripping the armrests.
