Brenda's face went white. Not pale: white, like every drop of blood had drained from her head to her feet in 1 second. Her mouth opened, closed, opened again. Nothing came out.
Olivia held her gaze for 3 more seconds. Then she turned and walked toward the SUV. Derek opened the rear door for her. She climbed in. The door closed with a heavy, final thud.
Inside the vehicle, the air conditioning was cold and sharp. The leather seat was cool against her back. Derek sat beside her; the two lawyers were in the second row.
"How bad?" Derek asked quietly.
Olivia pulled down the sun visor, looked at her cheek in the small mirror. The handprint was fully formed now, dark and vivid against her skin.
"Bad enough," she said.
She flipped the visor back up. Then she pulled out her phone and dialed a number she knew by heart. It rang twice.
"Olivia?" The voice on the other end was male, older, slightly out of breath. "Olivia, I just saw Derek's message. What happened? Are you—"
"Grant." Olivia's voice was level. No anger, no trembling, just facts. "Your senior flight attendant on my aircraft racially profiled me. She denied me service. She fabricated a security protocol to search my belongings. And she struck me across the face in front of your crew."
Silence on the line. The kind of silence that has weight.
"I have the full incident recorded. I have a witness, your junior attendant, who I expect will cooperate. And I have a handprint on my face that your company put there."
More silence. She could hear Grant Ellison breathing.
"The $200 million defense subcontract is terminated, effective now. Your team will receive formal notice within the hour. And the management contract for my aircraft is also done. I want your crew off my jet by the end of the day."