Chapter 3 - Check-in at Terminal Four
Saturday morning arrived with crisp, golden autumn sunlight flooding across the New York metropolitan area.
At 5:30 AM, my parents’ house in Westchester was already a whirlwind of manic energy and aristocratic arrogance.
Vanessa had spent the previous evening packing four massive Louis Vuitton trunks filled with designer dresses, shoes, and jewelry.
She had already posted seven different stories on Instagram showing off her passports, her designer luggage, and a screenshot of the luxury liner’s private deck.
The caption read: Escaping the peasant drama for three weeks of Mediterranean royalty. Ciao, New York.
My mother, Eleanor, wore an ivory silk travel coat and oversized sunglasses, looking like an aging movie star ready to grace the cover of a society magazine.
My father, Richard, had donned his custom-tailored navy blazer with brass buttons, checking his gold Rolex every three minutes as if he had an empire to run.
At 6:00 AM, Richard stepped out onto the circular driveway, expecting the black Mercedes Maybach I had initially booked to take them to JFK.
Instead, the driveway was empty.
The quiet morning mist hung over the manicured lawn, but no chauffeur stood waiting with white gloves to load their luggage.
“Where the hell is the car?” Richard muttered, checking his phone with irritation.
“Arthur must have booked the pickup for 6:15 AM,” Eleanor said, waving her hand dismissively as she adjusted her diamond earrings.
“You know how cautious he is.
He probably told them to arrive right on the dot.
Honestly, after the way his wife behaved last night, he should have sent two cars just to make amends for her temper tantrum.”
“She was completely unhinged,” Vanessa sneered, applying another layer of lip gloss in the reflection of her phone screen.
“Crying over a little splash of water.
She probably did it on purpose just to get Arthur to leave early and avoid paying for dinner.
She’s so low-class.
I don't know why Arthur ever married a common hospital worker.”
By 6:45 AM, no car had arrived.
Richard’s irritation turned into fiery impatience.
He dialed my cell phone four times in a row.
Each time, the call went straight to my corporate voicemail greeting: You have reached Arthur Vance. Please leave a message or contact my office on Monday.
“He’s not answering!” Richard barked, slamming his phone against his palm.
“The insolent little brat has his phone turned off!”
“Call an Uber Black, Richard!” Eleanor commanded, her voice rising in panic.
“We cannot miss our first-class check-in!
Emirates will close the dedicated lounge if we are late!”
Grumbling and cursing, Richard booked two large rideshare SUVs on his personal card, paying an exorbitant surge fee because of the early morning rush.
The drivers arrived, visibly annoyed at the sheer weight of Vanessa’s four trunks and Eleanor’s multiple garment bags.
Richard didn't tip them a single dollar.
During the forty-five-minute drive to John F. Kennedy International Airport, the three of them sat in the back of the SUV, rehearsing the scolding they were going to deliver to me once they landed in Europe.
“I am going to demand an extra ten thousand dollars in travel spending money from him for this inconvenience,” Richard declared loudly to his wife.
“Leaving us to hail cars like tourists on the morning of our thirty-fifth anniversary!
The boy has lost his mind since that woman got pregnant.”
“We will address it the moment we land in Milan,” Eleanor agreed, sniffing the air with disdain.
“He needs to be reminded of his place.
If it weren't for our name and our social standing, he would never have secured the venture capital for his logistics startup in the first place.”
They arrived at JFK Terminal Four at precisely 7:45 AM.
Richard pushed through the sliding glass doors with an air of immense importance, followed by two airport porters pushing their mountains of luxury luggage.
Vanessa walked behind them like a supermodel on a runway, recording a video of the terminal for her social media followers.
“Look at all these people crammed into economy lines,” Vanessa whispered into her phone camera with a mocking chuckle.
“Thank god for first-class private suites.
Privilege really is a lifestyle.”
They marched directly toward the red-carpeted Emirates First Class check-in desks.
A polished airline representative in an elegant beige uniform stepped forward with a warm, professional smile.
“Good morning.
Welcome to Emirates First Class.
May I see your passports and confirmation numbers, please?”
Richard stepped forward puffed out his chest, and handed over the three navy blue American passports along with the printed itinerary I had emailed them the previous week.
“Richard Vance, Eleanor Vance, and Vanessa Vance,” my father announced in a booming voice meant to attract the attention of everyone nearby.
“We are traveling in the private First Class suites to Milan, connecting through to Genoa.
Please ensure our bags are tagged directly to the presidential transfer service.”
The agent smiled politely and scanned the first passport.
She typed the six-character booking reference into her terminal.
The agent’s smile flickered.
A faint crease appeared between her eyebrows.
She tapped a few more keys, leaned closer to the screen, and refreshed the database.
“Is there a problem?” Eleanor asked, her tone instantly condescending.
“We are already running twenty minutes behind schedule because our private car was delayed.
We would like to proceed directly to the First Class lounge for breakfast.”
“One moment, please, ma'am,” the agent said softly, picking up her internal telephone.
She spoke quietly into the receiver for thirty seconds, her eyes darting briefly toward Richard and Vanessa.
She put the receiver down and looked up with an expression of polite, professional detachment.
“Mr. Vance, I’m looking at the reservation code you provided—Echo, Tango, Seven, Niner, Fox, Bravo.”
“Yes, that’s it,” Richard said impatiently.
“Is there an issue with the seat selection?
I explicitly requested suites 1A and 1E for my wife and myself.”
“Mr. Vance, this reservation was fully canceled yesterday evening at 9:14 PM,” the agent stated clearly.
The words hung in the air like a sudden drop in cabin pressure.
Vanessa stopped recording her video.
Eleanor’s hand froze halfway to her pearl necklace.
Richard blinked, his face turning an angry shade of crimson.
“What did you just say?” Richard growled, leaning heavily over the marble counter.
“Check it again, you incompetent girl!
That is a hundred-thousand-dollar booking!
It was paid in full by Vance Logistics!”
“Sir, please keep your voice down,” the agent replied, her voice remaining perfectly steady.
“The booking was canceled directly by the primary account holder and the cardholder who made the purchase, Mr. Arthur Vance.
The tickets were completely voided.
The cancellation penalty was accepted in full.
You do not have seats on this flight.”
“That’s impossible!” Vanessa shrieked, shoving her way past my father to slam both hands onto the check-in desk.
“My brother booked this!
I am an influencer with two hundred thousand followers!
My bags are already on those carts!
Reissue the tickets immediately!”
“I cannot reissue voided tickets, miss,” the agent replied firmly, taking a half-step back from the counter.
“The first-class cabin for today’s flight to Milan is fully booked and closed.
Even if you wished to purchase new tickets at the walk-up counter, there are zero seats available on this aircraft.”
Eleanor swayed on her feet, clutching her silk coat as if she were about to faint.
“Richard... Richard, do something!” she gasped, her voice shrill with rising panic.
“Our luggage!
The cruise ship departs Genoa tomorrow afternoon!
If we miss this flight, we miss the entire three-week voyage!”
Richard pulled out his black titanium corporate credit card—the one issued under Vance Logistics that I had canceled ten hours earlier.
He slammed it onto the counter with enough force to make the acrylic signs rattle.
“Run this card!” Richard roared, completely losing his temper.
“Book us into business class!
Book us on another airline!
Book us on Delta, Air France, Lufthansa, anything!
I am Richard Vance, and you will not treat my family like common vagrants!”
The agent looked at the card, then looked at Richard with chilling calm.
“Sir, if you do not step away from this counter and lower your voice immediately, I will be forced to summon Port Authority police.”
Richard didn't step back.
Instead, he reached across the desk and grabbed the computer monitor, trying to spin it around to look at the screen himself.
“Show me the screen, you little—”
May you like
He never finished the sentence.
Two heavily armed Port Authority police officers, who had been watching the commotion from twenty yards away, moved in with blinding speed.
