Isaiah didn’t flinch. He didn’t jump. He didn’t swear. He sat perfectly still as the champagne soaked into his shirt and his pants and the seat beneath him. When the bottle was empty, Diane set it back on the cart, wiped her hands on a napkin, and said, “There. Now you’ve had your champagne.” She turned and walked back to the galley. The cabin remained frozen for three full seconds. Then Harold Bennett spoke, his voice low and cutting. “That was assault. You just committed assault on a commercial aircraft.” Diane’s voice floated back from behind the curtain. “He wanted champagne. I gave it to him.”

Isaiah finally moved. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and made one call. The number was on speed dial. “Sandra. It’s Isaiah.” On the other end, Sandra Palmer, chief operating officer of Prestige Atlantic Airlines, answered on the second ring. “Mr. Carter.” “I’m on Flight 2261, Atlanta to New York.” “I know. I cleared your booking myself.” “Pull up the cabin crew roster for this flight.” Sandra was already typing. Her fingers moved across the keyboard with the efficiency of someone who understood that when Isaiah Carter spoke in short sentences, the situation was past the point of discussion. “Diane Ashford, lead flight attendant, first class, twelve years with the company.” Sandra paused. “Greg Nolan, two years. And a third—Michelle Voss, three years. What happened?”

“Ashford refused me champagne service. Told me I didn’t belong in first class. Called me a thief, a freeloader. Wiped the armrest after touching my boarding pass like I was contaminated.” Isaiah’s voice didn’t change. Not one degree. He could have been reading a grocery list. “Then she poured Dom Pérignon on me—deliberately—in front of the entire cabin.” Sandra stopped typing. Three seconds of silence in corporate America. Three seconds of silence from a COO means someone is about to lose their job. Three seconds of silence from Sandra Palmer meant someone was about to lose their job, their reference letter, and any chance of working in aviation again. “All three.” “All three. Ashford led it. Nolan followed orders. Voss stood behind the curtain and watched. I want their names off the system before we land.” “You’ll have it in ten minutes.” “Make it five.” The line went dead.

Isaiah placed the phone face down on the armrest. The screen went dark. He picked up the cloth napkin from his lap—the one he’d been using to absorb the champagne from his shirt—and folded it into a neat square. He placed it on the armrest next to his phone. Then he went back to looking out the window. Across the galley curtain, Diane was talking to Greg in the kind of whisper that isn’t actually a whisper. “He’s calling someone.” Greg had been watching through the gap in the curtain. He looked serious. “Let him call.” Diane was restocking the drink tray, her movements sharp and fast, like a woman trying to prove she wasn’t rattled by acting twice as busy as she needed to be. “Who’s he going to call? A lawyer? Good luck. It’s his word against mine. And I’ve got twelve years of spotless record.” “Diane, the old guy said people were recording.” “People are always recording. Doesn’t mean anything.” She slammed a tray of glasses into the rack. “I’ve had passengers threaten to sue me six times. Six. Want to know how many lawsuits actually happened?” She held up a fist. “Zero. Nobody follows through. They land. They go home. They forget about it. Trust me.”