He walked off the jet bridge and into the terminal, leaving Ballard and his team standing in stunned silence, the scent of their desperation still lingering in the air. He was met not by a customs line, but by an official who whisked him through a private channel and out to a waiting black car on the tarmac.
As the car sped away from the airport, Alexander looked back at the Transatlantic terminal. Several of their iconic red-tailed planes sat idle at the gates, giant useless machines. They looked like monuments in a corporate graveyard.
The first phase of his plan was complete. The initial shock and awe had been delivered. Now came the hard part. Not just seeking retribution, but forcing genuine systemic change. He wasn't just going to make them pay.
He was going to make them learn. The call he was about to schedule with Thomas Davies wouldn't be a negotiation. It would be a sentencing.
Twenty-four hours after flight 88 landed, the world of Transatlantic Air had been fundamentally reshaped. The airline was no longer an aviation company. It was a global headline, a cautionary tale, and a financial disaster zone. The $2.1 billion figure was now a conservative estimate as the stock had officially opened and lost nearly 60% of its value. Every news channel from CNN to the BBC was leading with the story and the narrative was coalescing just as Elena Vance had feared into a devastatingly simple and damning tale. Billionaire tech CEO Alexander Thorne grounds airline after racist incident.
The pressure on Thomas Davies was immense and suffocating. The board was in revolt. Major investors were calling for his head, and the public relations nightmare was spiraling into an existential crisis. His last desperate hope rested on a video conference call scheduled on Alexander Thorne's terms at a time of Alexander Thorne's choosing.
Davies sat in the Transatlantic boardroom, a cavernous space that now felt like a tomb. With him were his COO, Richard Maxwell, his CFO, Elena Vance, and his lead counsel. They looked like a defeated war council. On the massive screen at the end of the table, a single placid window waited for the caller to join.
At precisely 9:00 a.m. Eastern time, the window flickered to life. Alexander Thorne appeared. He was not in a stuffy office. He was in what looked like a comfortable art-filled study, a large abstract painting visible over his shoulder.
He wore a simple dark cashmere sweater. He looked rested, calm, and completely in control. The contrast with the haggard, sleep-deprived faces in the boardroom was stark.
“Mr. Davies,” Alexander began, his voice crisp and clear. “Thank you for making the time.” The subtle jab, as if Davies had anything more important to do, landed with precision.
“Mr. Thorne,” Davies said, forcing a conciliatory tone. “I want to begin by offering you my deepest, most unreserved apology on a personal level and on behalf of every single employee at Transatlantic Air. What happened at gate A17 was inexcusable. It was a failure of our process, a failure of our training, and a failure of our basic human decency.”
Alexander listened, his expression unchanging. He let the apology hang in the silence for an uncomfortably long moment.
“Your apology is noted, Mr. Davies,” he said finally.