Chapter 3 - The Galley Confrontation
The blue mood lighting of the First Class cabin did nothing to soften the suffocating tension between our seats.
Trinity was weeping silently against the cold oval glass of the window, refusing to acknowledge my presence.
Every minute that passed felt like a slow tightening of a noose around my neck.
I knew that if I stayed trapped in that seat until we reached Europe, I would land directly into the arms of law enforcement.
I unbuckled my seatbelt, ignoring the illuminated seatbelt sign, and stood up in the narrow aisle.
My legs felt heavy, as if I were wading through deep water, as I walked toward the curtain dividing the forward galley.
I pushed past the heavy navy fabric and slipped into the prep area.
Dakota was standing at the stainless steel counter, methodically organizing beverage trays and meal carts.
The chief flight attendant was nowhere in sight, leaving the two of us completely alone beneath the harsh fluorescent lights.
"Dakota, stop this right now," I said, my voice shaking with a volatile mixture of fear and entitlement.
She didn't jump or act surprised; she simply continued placing silver utensils onto a linen-lined tray.
"Passengers must remain seated when the seatbelt sign is illuminated, Miles," she replied without looking up.
"I don't give a damn about the seatbelt sign!" I snapped, lowering my voice when I remembered the nearby passengers.
"How long have you been planning this elaborate ambush?" I demanded, leaning over the metal counter.
Dakota placed a butter knife down with deliberate care and finally raised her eyes to meet mine.
"Eight months, Miles," she answered with absolute tranquility.
"Eight months since the first dry cleaning receipt for a boutique hotel in Midtown appeared in your trouser pocket," she continued.
"You could have confronted me like a normal wife!" I hissed, trying desperately to shift the moral weight onto her.
"We could have handled this quietly through private attorneys without humiliating me on an international flight!" I argued.
Dakota let out a soft, dry laugh that sounded entirely devoid of warmth.
"A normal wife?" she asked, tilting her head slightly.
"A normal wife would have trusted your lies and ended up losing her home when the FBI raided your office," she said.
"You didn't just break your vows, Miles, you systematically stole from my family's legacy," she added with ice in her tone.
"I built that division from the ground up!" I protested, my ego flaring up despite the hopeless circumstances.
"You ran that division into seven figures of unauthorized debt while funneling kickbacks into shell companies," she corrected coldly.
She pulled a small digital tablet from her apron pocket and tapped the screen twice.
"Do you know what hurt me the most, Miles?" she asked, her voice softening just enough to reveal a flicker of pain.
"It wasn't even the fact that you slept with that girl in seat 2A," she said.
"It was what you did to your own mother," Dakota stated flatly.
A wave of genuine dread crashed over me, far worse than any corporate threat she had made so far.
"Leave my mother out of this," I muttered, looking away toward the curtain.
"Your mother gave you her entire life savings when you started at Sterling Crest," Dakota reminded me ruthlessly.
"And when she developed early-stage dementia last year, you told the family she needed to be placed in memory care," she continued.
"I placed her in a certified facility!" I defended myself weakly.
"You placed her in a substandard state facility outside Cleveland so you could redirect her pension into your private accounts," Dakota revealed.
"You told her the money was gone, while you spent four thousand dollars a night on luxury suites in Manhattan," she said.
My throat felt parched, and I could feel beads of cold sweat running down the back of my neck.
"How did you find out about the Cleveland facility?" I whispered.
"Because your mother called me three months ago crying because the heat in her room wasn't working," Dakota replied.
"She thought you were just busy saving the company, so she didn't want to bother her brilliant son," Dakota added with disgust.
"I went to Cleveland that very weekend, Miles," she said, stepping closer to me.
"I saw the conditions she was living in while you were buying diamond bracelets for your designer girlfriend," she said.
Every defense I had prepared withered and died on my lips.
"I moved her out of there last Tuesday," Dakota informed me, watching my reaction carefully.
"You did what?" I asked, stumbling back a step.
"She is currently settled into a private care estate in Greenwich, Connecticut, under my direct legal guardianship," Dakota stated.
"Her pension has been restored, and her power of attorney has been legally transferred to me," she continued.
"You had no right to interfere in my family matters!" I snarled, my frustration boiling over.
"You stopped having a family the moment you turned your mother into collateral damage for your vanity," Dakota replied.
She tapped the tablet again and turned the screen toward me.
Displayed on the glass was a live video feed of a conference room at the Federal Plaza in Manhattan.
Sitting around the mahogany table were three assistant United States attorneys and two senior compliance officers.
"They are monitoring this flight manifest in real time, Miles," Dakota said calmly.
"The purser holds a certified federal warrant in the cockpit safe, authorizing our flight diversion if necessary," she added.
"Diversion?" I choked out, the word feeling like a death sentence.
"You think this plane is going to let you walk through customs in Italy?" Dakota asked with a thin smile.
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"You are not going to Florence, Miles," she whispered.
"You are flying straight into the jurisdiction waiting for you on the ground," she said, turning back to her service cart.
