Meanwhile, on the other side of the terminal, Victor Ashland was trying to salvage the most important deal of his career. He caught up with Simone just before she reached the Suburban. His stride was half-jog, half-power-walk, the kind of movement a man makes when dignity and desperation are fighting for control.
"Ms. Fletcher, please! Just five minutes."
Simone stopped, turned. Her expression was the same one she'd worn in row 22: calm, patient, unreadable.
"Mr. Ashland, I understand this morning was irregular. And I want you to know I had absolutely nothing to do with what happened on that plane. I didn't ask anyone to move anyone. I simply boarded and sat where I was directed."
"Where you were directed?" Simone repeated it slowly. "Into my seat."
"I didn't know it was your seat!"
"You didn't need to know it was mine. You needed to know it was someone's. A woman was physically removed from her assigned seat so you could drink champagne in it. And you didn't ask a single question. You just sat down."
Ashland's mouth opened, closed.
And then Simone continued, "You spent two hours in that seat telling the pilot—my pilot, on my aircraft—that the CEO of my company was probably a trust fund baby who inherited everything from daddy."
The color left Ashland's face in stages: pink to white to a grayish nothing.
"My father was an aircraft mechanic, Mr. Ashland. He died on a tarmac. He never sat in first class. He never flew as a passenger on any plane in his entire life. And he built the foundation of everything you just laughed about at 35,000 feet while drinking my champagne."
Ashland took a step backward. Not because Simone had raised her voice—she hadn't. That was the thing: she didn't need to.
"The partnership deal is off the table, Mr. Ashland. Permanently. My legal team will send formal notice by end of business today."