“GET OUT OF MY SEAT BEFORE I HAVE YOU THROWN OFF THIS PLANE!”
The man's voice echoed through the luxurious first-class cabin of Flight 907, making the young flight attendant standing beside the aisle visibly flinch.
Noelle Ashford stopped three feet from the black leather seat.
For a moment, she simply stared.
A forty-eight-year-old white billionaire sat sprawled across the enormous reclining chair, wearing a black leather jacket covered in extravagant gold embroidery, several heavy silver necklaces, and a watch that probably cost more than the average American household earned in five years.
His slicked-back blond hair was perfectly arranged.
His expensive black shoes rested on the glossy conference table directly in front of him.
And he was blowing a large pink bubblegum bubble.
The bubble burst.
He slowly pulled the gum back into his mouth.
Then he grinned at her.
“Did you hear me, sweetheart?”
Noelle didn't answer immediately.
She was thirty-five years old, extraordinarily beautiful, with deep chocolate-brown skin, captivating dark eyes, naturally full lips, and a sleek black bob that ended just beneath her chin. She wore a striking emerald-green designer ensemble: an exceptionally short structured cropped blazer with sculpted shoulders and a dramatic open front, matching ultra-wide-leg tailored trousers, a distinctive white designer waistband, and pointed white heels.
A delicate gold necklace rested against her collarbone.
In her left hand, she carried an expensive emerald-green leather handbag.
In her right, she held a confirmed boarding pass.
FLIGHT 907 — VIP CABIN — SEAT 1A.
The cabin was part of one of the most exclusive private aviation services in the United States. Cream-colored overhead panels curved above polished dark-wood partitions. Soft white lighting illuminated the aisle, and enormous black leather seats surrounded glossy tables fitted with charging ports and concealed storage compartments.
Outside the oval windows, the runways of John F. Kennedy International Airport shimmered beneath the afternoon sun.
Noelle looked toward the man's shoes.
Then toward the flight attendant.
The attendant was a thirty-two-year-old blonde woman wearing a burgundy tailored uniform, a white silk neck scarf, and a small gold name badge.
Her name was Claire Bennett.
She was standing perfectly still, hands clasped tightly in front of her, with the expression of somebody who had already tried to resolve the situation and failed.
Noelle turned back toward the man.
“Your feet.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“What?”
“Take your feet off the table.”
He looked down at his shoes.
Then laughed.
“Oh, that's adorable.”