The moment the stewardess paused beside his seat, Harrison Cole already sensed trouble. He was seated in the front row of business class, his tailored charcoal suit perfectly pressed, his Italian leather briefcase tucked neatly under the seat ahead of him. Everything about this flight mattered to him: his timing, his comfort, and most importantly, the virtual meeting he was scheduled to host midair with a group of international investors.
The deal, months in the making, could expand his textile empire into three new markets.
So when he glanced up and saw a woman standing beside the stewardess with three children clustered around her, his irritation flared instantly. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Harrison muttered, pulling one earbud halfway out.
His voice rose sharply as he addressed the stewardess. “You expect me to believe she’s sitting here?
Right next to me?”
The stewardess, a composed woman with years of experience written in her calm posture, held out the boarding passes.
“Yes, sir. These seats are assigned to Mrs. Clara Whitmore and her children.”
Harrison scoffed, his gaze flicking dismissively over the woman.
Her coat was worn but clean, her shoes sensible rather than stylish.
She carried herself with quiet dignity, but to Harrison, she looked out of place among polished shoes and designer handbags. “This is business class,” he snapped.
“I paid a premium to be here because I need peace. I have an extremely important meeting during this flight.
Children don’t belong here.”
“I understand your concern,” the stewardess replied evenly, “but Mrs.
Whitmore purchased these seats just like everyone else. I’ll ask that you cooperate.”
Before Harrison could retort, the woman spoke softly. “It’s all right,” she said, her voice calm but tired.
“If someone is willing to switch seats with us, we don’t mind moving.”
The stewardess shook her head immediately.
“No, ma’am. You’re entitled to these seats.
Please don’t feel pressured.”
Harrison leaned back, jaw tight, clearly displeased. He slid his earbuds back in with exaggerated force, turning his face toward the window as Clara helped her children into their seats.
She checked each seatbelt carefully, whispering reminders and brushing hair from foreheads with gentle fingers.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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