Khloe appeared moments later with a silver tray holding a flute of Dom Pérignon 2012 and a warm towel.
"Can I get you anything else before takeoff, Mr. Hayes? A sleeper suit, perhaps?"
"Just the suit, please, Khloe. I plan on sleeping the entire way."
"Of course, sir."
Desmond dimmed his reading light, took a sip of the champagne, and closed his eyes.
For exactly 10 minutes, the world was peaceful.
Then heavy footsteps echoed down the aisle, followed by that unmistakable, grating voice.
"Richard, I need you to hang this jacket immediately. Do not fold it. Do not crush the shoulders. It's vicuña."
Preston Montgomery had arrived.
Desmond kept his eyes closed, hoping the man was seated far in the back of the cabin. But the footsteps stopped directly adjacent to Desmond's suite. There was a pause, then a sharp, impatient sigh.
Desmond opened his eyes.
Preston Montgomery was standing in the aisle, his hands on his hips, staring down at Desmond with an expression of baffled irritation.
"Excuse me," Preston said, the words dripping with condescension. "I think you're in the wrong seat, pal."
Desmond did not immediately respond. He took a slow, deliberate breath, letting the exhaustion of a 90-hour work week settle in his bones before looking up at the red-faced executive.
"I assure you, I am not," Desmond replied evenly.
His voice was quiet, lacking any of the combative energy Preston was radiating.
Preston offered a short, humorless laugh, looking back at his assistant, who was awkwardly hovering behind him in the aisle.
"Look, buddy, I fly this route twice a month. I am a Chairman's Club Diamond member with this airline. Seat 1A is my seat. I always sit in 1A. The gate agent must have gotten confused and pointed you to the wrong row."
"I am in 1A," Desmond stated.
He didn't reach for his boarding pass. He didn't feel the need to prove his existence, or his right to occupy space, to a man who had already decided he didn't belong.
Preston's face tightened, his pale skin flushing a mottled pink.
He looked Desmond up and down, taking in the plain gray sweater, the worn jeans, the lack of flashy logos. The micro-calculations in Preston's eyes were obvious. He was looking at a Black man in casual clothes, and concluding, with absolute certainty, that an administrative error had occurred.