"Fourteen years with Skyline," Doug Pruitt announced, lifting a glass plaque so the auditorium lights caught its etched wings. "The best customer satisfaction score in the Midwest, and a supervisor who knows how to get passengers where they need to go.
Gary Whitlock, on behalf of all of us, congratulations." Applause rolled through the room, and Gary rose from his front-row seat wearing the satisfied smile of a man who had practiced receiving this particular award in his bathroom mirror.
He shook Doug's hand, turned toward the company photographer, and held the plaque against his chest.
"Thank you, Doug," Gary said into the microphone. "I just try to treat every passenger the way I'd want to be treated." Several employees applauded again, while others exchanged small, uncertain glances that the photographer did not capture. Along the side wall, a young flight attendant named Maya Lewis stood very still, watching the man on the stage. She had been on a plane that morning when a passenger asked for exactly the treatment Gary claimed to provide.
Margaret Ellis, the outgoing board chair, stepped toward the second microphone. "Colleagues, before we begin the formal board session, I'd like to introduce someone," she said, and the room settled into the attentive silence reserved for announcements from people who controlled budgets and promotions. "Our incoming chair of the board, Ms. Imani Brooks." Gary turned toward the entrance with his plaque still in his hands, expecting an expensive suit and a familiar executive face. Instead, he saw a woman who had spent the morning carrying a bag through his gate, a woman whose name he had told himself he would never need to remember.
Only a few hours earlier, that woman had been sitting at her kitchen table before sunrise, looking at a boarding pass with the words SEAT 2A printed in black beneath her name. She had purchased it at the ordinary public fare, with her own credit card, without mentioning a corporate account or asking for a favor. At forty-two, Imani Brooks had become a serious investor in an airline whose employees knew very little about her personally. She intended to keep it that way for at least one more flight.
The house was quiet except for the soft rhythm of the coffee maker and rainwater ticking into a garden barrel outside the back window. Her carry-on stood by the door, packed with two changes of clothes, a laptop, a folded photograph of her father, and a blue folder she had not finished reading. She wore a charcoal jacket over a plain cream blouse, dark trousers, and shoes comfortable enough for a long walk between terminals. No assistant had selected the clothes, and no driver waited in the driveway.
Her phone vibrated just as she opened the folder. "Good morning, Ms. Brooks," said Tasha Bennett, her executive assistant. "You're up early, even for you."
Imani smiled at the familiar voice and glanced toward the clock. "Early flight, Tasha. Tell me you didn't flag my passenger profile." Tasha waited half a beat before answering, which was enough to make Imani narrow her eyes.