The realization crashed over him like an ocean wave. The quiet man in the gray sweater hadn't just been a passenger. He was the apex predator of the financial food chain. And Preston had walked right up and kicked him in the teeth.
Captain Mitchell leaned in, his eyes hard and unsympathetic.
"You need to collect your belongings, Mr. Montgomery. You are permanently banned from flying with Global Airways. Now get off my plane."
Five minutes later, Preston Montgomery did the walk of shame he had so gleefully wished upon Desmond.
Still wearing the oversized airline sleeper suit, clutching his vicuña jacket and briefcase, Preston stumbled up the jet bridge, looking utterly destroyed. The remaining passengers in business class whispered and pointed as he was escorted out by airport security.
Back in the terminal, Desmond Hayes was still sitting peacefully by the window, watching the rain streak down the glass. The massive 777 remained dead on the tarmac.
His phone buzzed. It was an unknown Dallas number. He let it ring.
Then he heard the heavy, panicked footsteps echoing down the concourse. He turned his head slowly.
Sprinting toward him, completely out of breath and looking perfectly wretched in his pajamas, was Preston Montgomery. Close behind him was Captain Mitchell, looking equally desperate.
They skidded to a halt a few feet from Desmond.
Preston looked at the billionaire, his previous arrogance entirely evaporated, replaced by raw, unadulterated fear.
Desmond didn't stand up. He didn't gloat. He simply looked at Preston, his expression unreadable, and waited for the corporate aristocrat to speak.
For a long, excruciating minute, the only sound in the deserted terminal was the rhythmic drumming of rain against the glass and the ragged, shallow breathing of Preston Montgomery.
He stood before Desmond Hayes in the oversized, wrinkled blue Global Airways sleeper suit, clutching his precious vicuña jacket like a child holding a security blanket.
All the bluster, all the sneering entitlement that had radiated from him just 30 minutes prior, had been entirely hollowed out. He looked exactly like what he was: a frightened boy who had finally broken a toy that his father's money could not replace.
Beside him, Captain Mitchell looked equally defeated, his airline captain's hat held awkwardly in his hands, his posture slumped.
Desmond did not invite them to sit. He simply let the silence stretch, forcing them to marinate in the agonizing reality of their own making.
"Mr. Hayes," Preston choked out finally.
His voice was a pathetic rasp, stripped of its nasal arrogance.
"I... I didn't know who you were."