"Get your dirty hands off that seat."

Jessica Morrison's voice cut through the cabin like a blade. Without warning, she yanked Robert Hayes backward by his collar.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," Robert said, his voice steady despite the sudden violence. "This is my seat."

"Your seat?" Jessica laughed right in his face, her perfectly painted lips curling into a sneer. "Look at you. Smell you. This is business class for real people, not trash."

"I paid for this ticket, ma'am."

"Liar." She snatched the worn leather wallet from his trembling hands and threw it hard down the aisle. "You probably stole it, like everything else your kind steals."

Robert bent slowly to retrieve it. His hands shook as he reached out. Without hesitation, Jessica grabbed his face. Her palm exploded across his mouth with a sickening crack. Blood immediately sprayed across his collar, and his wire-rimmed glasses shattered onto the floor.

Robert stood there, silent. His cheek burned an angry red. He was seventy-two years old, a retired postal worker. He had worn his best Navy blazer today—the one his late wife, Margaret, had bought him for their fortieth anniversary five years ago, right before the cancer took her. Tucked carefully inside his shirt pocket was a photo of Margaret smiling at their kitchen table.

He had saved one hundred thirty dollars every month for half a year. He gave up restaurants. He canceled his cable TV. He ate oatmeal for breakfast and plain sandwiches for dinner. He did it all so he could fly business class just once in his life, to see what it felt like on the way to watch his granddaughter Maya graduate from Northwestern as a top-of-her-class premed student.

Now, his crisp shirt was splattered with blood.

Jessica Morrison watched him with profound satisfaction. She smoothed her hair back into place and adjusted her silver name tag. Eight years she had worked for Crown Atlantic Airlines. Eight years of dealing with passengers who thought they were special.

Behind her, route manager Derek Sullivan approached. At forty-one, with a thick neck and a permanent scowl, he had gotten Jessica out of trouble before. She had seventeen complaints on her record in the last two years, and Derek had mysteriously closed every single one.

"Everything okay here, Jess?" His voice was perfectly casual, as if a bleeding elderly man was just part of the routine.

"The passenger became aggressive when I asked for identification," Jessica lied smoothly, not missing a beat. "He grabbed my wrist. I had to defend myself."

Three rows ahead, in first class, Marcus Hayes sat perfectly still. He wore a custom-tailored charcoal suit, a luxury watch glinting on his wrist. He had watched the entire exchange. When Robert first boarded, Marcus had glanced up, and their eyes had met for half a second. Marcus had deliberately looked away, turning back to his newspaper.