Page 14 of Mile High Ruin

“I’m pleased to hear it.” Her face remains composed, but I can see the challenge beneath it.

She is angry. Still.

Over the bag.

The realization should make me dismiss her as childish. Instead, it holds my attention.

I glance at the bottle in her hand. “Are you fully trained, or is this flight intended to serve as your education?” The words come out colder than I intend.

Something changes in her face. Not much. The polite expression remains, but her eyes lose the spark they had a moment ago.

“I’ve worked international first class for six years, sir.”

“Commercial service is not the same.”

“No. It isn’t.” The answer is perfectly controlled.

She has made one minor error. She corrected it immediately. Since takeoff, the service has been flawless. There was no reason to insult her again. I know it as soon as I’ve done it.

But I don’t apologize. I’ve not apologized to anyone aboard one of my aircraft in years, and the instinct does not arrive naturally.

Sloane reaches for my glass. “Would you prefer something else?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll continue service.” She turns toward the table.

I tell myself to let her go. Instead, I add, “Try not to overlook anything this time.”

Her back stiffens.

Marek looks at me as though I’ve lost my mind.

Sloane turns slowly. Her face is serene. Too serene.

“Of course, Mr. Chernovar.”

She moves to my right with the bottle. Iosef extends his glass for more champagne. She pours for him without incident, then steps back toward me, apparently to refill mine.

Her hand tilts.

The champagne misses the glass. A pale yellow stream lands directly across the front of my white shirt and the upper leg of my trousers. It looks like I’ve fucking pissed myself.

The cabin goes silent.

The liquid is cool against my skin. A drop falls from the edge of the table to the carpet.

Sloane stares at the stain. Then she looks at me. “I’m sorry, sir.” There is not a trace of sincerity in her voice. Not one.

She did it deliberately. I know because her hands are too steady. Because she served three other men without spilling a drop. Because the corner of her mouth is held too carefully still.

Anton rises halfway from his seat.

I lift one hand. He stops.

If anyone else poured wine over me with intent, they would not remain standing long enough to invent an apology. In another setting, with another person, the response would be immediate.

A hand broken against the table.