We're experiencing some turbulence. Turbulence. That's what they're calling it. Blake Morrison looks at Victoria Hayes. Really looks at her for the first time.
He sees intelligence in her dark eyes, confidence in her posture, power in her stillness. He sees a woman who doesn't need to raise her voice to command respect. And for the first time in his entitled life, Blake Morrison realizes he might be in serious trouble. The countdown timer on Victoria's tablet reads 9 minutes 23 seconds. The real show is just beginning.
2 hours earlier, Chicago O'Hare Terminal 3 buzzed with the usual chaos of international departures. Rain hammered the floor-to-ceiling windows. Thunder rolled across the runway like a warning. Victoria Hayes pulled her hood up as she walked through the terminal. The charcoal gray sweatshirt had seen better days.
Her jeans were comfortable, not designer. Her sneakers were practical, not fashionable. She carried a worn leather duffel bag that had traveled the world, but looked like it belonged in a college dorm. To every passenger she passed, Victoria looked like exactly what she wasn't, ordinary. She paused at a Starbucks, ordered a black coffee, and checked her phone.
47 missed calls from her assistant. 32 text messages from her board of directors. The London deal was worth $800 million. Her presence was required in exactly 9 hours. But Victoria had learned something over 20 years of building Skylink Dynamics.
The best way to understand your customers is to become one. She paid for her coffee with cash and walked toward gate G14. Behind her, three businessmen in expensive suits discussed the European markets. Their voices carried that particular arrogance of men who'd never been told no. The problem with these AI companies, one said loudly, is they're all run by kids who think they understand business, or diversity hires who check the right boxes but can't execute, another added.
Victoria smiled to herself. Skylink Dynamics had outperformed every competitor for six consecutive years. But these men would never believe that a black woman in a hoodie could run a company they probably invested in. She approached the gate area. Flight 847 to London showed on time on the departure board, but Victoria knew better.
Her weather algorithms predicted a 2-hour delay. She'd planned for it. The gate agent, Richard Steinberg, sat behind his desk, looking perpetually irritated. His name tag hung crooked on a wrinkled uniform. When he saw Victoria approaching, his expression soured further.
"Can I help you?" Victoria handed him her boarding pass. Richard scanned it and frowned. "First class? That's correct." Richard stared at her sweatshirt, then her jeans, then her sneakers. He scanned the boarding pass again.
Is this your ticket? Yes, it's my ticket. I mean, did you purchase this yourself? Victoria set her coffee down. I'm sorry.
What exactly are you asking? Sometimes people find tickets or, you know, there are mixups with the booking system. There's no mixup. That's my name on the boarding pass. Richard called over his colleague, a thin woman with severe glasses.