Chapter 8
Walking down the aisle, flanked by two men in dark suits and the airline’s chief of flight operations, was a man in his late sixties.
His silver hair was perfectly combed, his bespoke Italian suit immaculate, and his eyes were chips of absolute ice.
“My father,” Jet looked up.
If he had been pale before, he was translucent now. He scrambled backward, trying to stand up, but his legs gave out and he collapsed awkwardly against a row of seats.
“Chairman Vance,” Jet stammered, coughing as he tried to find his voice. “Sir, I… I can explain.”
My father didn’t even look at him.
He walked straight to my row, his expression softening only for a fraction of a second as he looked at me and Ruby.
“Are you hurt, Rachel?” he asked.
“I’m fine, Dad,” I said, unbuckling myself and standing up. I picked up Ruby, resting her on my hip.
The entire cabin inhaled collectively.
Even the police officers looked stunned.
Rose, still restrained by the cops, stopped thrashing. Her eyes bulged as she looked from my father to me and then back to Jet.
“Dad?” she whispered.
My father finally turned his gaze to Jet, who was trembling so violently his teeth were chattering.
“Captain Jetson,” my father said, his voice terrifyingly calm, “I understand there’s been a security incident on my aircraft. I also understand you’ve been telling people you are my illegitimate son.”
The chief of flight operations, standing behind my father, looked like he wanted to vomit.
Jet put his head in his hands and began to sob. Deep, ugly, pathetic sobs.
“Sir, please. I was just trying to impress her. It was a stupid lie. I’m sorry. I love Rachel. I love my family.”
“You don’t know the meaning of the word,” my father said.
He looked at the Port Authority officers.
“Officers, my daughter is not the security threat here. However, I would like to report a theft.”
I pointed at Rose, who was now staring at me with a look of dawning horror.
“The watch on her left wrist. Serial number 84729B,” I said, my voice ringing out clearly. “The necklace around her neck, custom-engraved with the initials R and J, and the orange Hermès Birkin bag. They were stolen from my private residence in Chicago. I have the receipts, the insurance papers, and the police reports filed this morning.”
Rose looked down at the bag, then grabbed her necklace as if it were suddenly burning her skin.
“No, he bought these for me. He said they were new. He is the chairman’s son.”
“I only have one child,” my father said coldly, looking at Rose. “And you just spent a four-hour flight insulting her.”
“Strip her of the stolen items,” the chief of flight ops told the police. “Now, please.”
Rose wailed as a female officer stepped forward to unclip the diamond watch.
“Jet, do something! Tell them you bought it!”
Jet didn’t look at her. He was curled in on himself, weeping into his knees.
The illusion was entirely broken.
He wasn’t a wealthy heir. He wasn’t a master of the universe. He was a fraud who had been living on my dime, wearing the uniform my father handed him, trying to play a big shot with stolen goods.
“Take him off my plane,” my father said to the chief of operations. “He is suspended immediately, pending a board review. I want his badge, his epaulets, and his wings. Now.”
The chief stepped forward, grabbed Jet by the arm, and hauled him to his feet right there in front of a hundred and fifty passengers.
He ripped the golden wings off Jet’s chest and tore the four-striped epaulets off his shoulders.
Jet didn’t fight back.
He just stared at me, tears streaming down his face, his eyes begging for a mercy he hadn’t shown me for four years.
“Rachel, please,” he mouthed.
I looked at him, feeling absolutely nothing. No anger. No sadness. Just the sterile emptiness of taking out the trash.
“Out with the old,” I whispered, “in with the new.”
The police escorted Jet and a hysterical Rose off the plane.
The passengers, realizing the show was over, sat in stunned silence.
My father gently placed a hand on my back.
“Let’s go home, Rachel. The car is waiting.”