Greg didn’t look convinced. He looked at the curtain again. Through the gap, he could see the back of Isaiah’s head, still composed, facing the window. There was something about the man’s stillness that made Greg’s stomach turn. Not because it was threatening—because it was patient. The kind of patience that belongs to someone who doesn’t need to rush because the outcome is already decided. “What if he’s somebody?” Greg said quietly. “Somebody?” Diane laughed. It came out louder than she intended. “Greg, look at him. Does he look like somebody to you?” Greg didn’t answer, because the honest answer was yes. Something about the way Isaiah Carter sat in that champagne-soaked shirt without moving, without complaining, without showing a single crack—that wasn’t the behavior of a man who had been defeated.
That was the behavior of a man who was waiting. Greg had seen waiting before. His father had been a carpenter, a quiet man, the kind of man who measured three times and cut once, who never raised his voice when a client insulted his work, who just nodded, packed his tools, and left. And every single time the client called back within a week, because silence from a competent man is louder than any argument. Greg looked at Isaiah through the curtain gap one more time. The man was still. His hands were still folded. His breathing was still even. But there was something in his posture—a heaviness that wasn’t defeat. It was gravity. The kind of gravity that pulls everything toward it and doesn’t need permission. Greg turned back to Diane.
She was checking her lipstick in the reflection of a serving tray. “Diane?” His voice was barely a whisper. “I think we should stop.” “Stop what?” “All of it. Just leave him alone. Serve him the champagne. Apologize before this gets—” “Before this gets what, Greg?” Diane snapped the tray into the rack. “I’m not apologizing to a man who doesn’t belong in my cabin. End of discussion.” Greg closed his mouth, and for the second time that flight, he chose to follow orders he knew were wrong.
In seat 2C, Harold Bennett was also waiting. He had uncrossed his legs. His book was closed on his lap, bookmark in place. His hands were resting on the armrests with the casual readiness of a man who had seen the opening act and knew the main event was about to start. Harold had watched Isaiah make the call. He hadn’t heard the words. Isaiah’s voice had been too low, too controlled for that. But Harold had been reading body language in courtrooms for four decades, and he knew exactly what a calm phone call from a powerful person looked like. No raised voice, no trembling hands, no long explanations—just instructions delivered like someone placing an order. That call lasted less than ninety seconds. Whatever Isaiah Carter had set in motion, it was already done. Harold looked at Diane through the gap in the galley curtain. She was still talking to Greg, still confident, still smiling. He almost felt sorry for her. Almost.
