Chapter 3 - THIRTY-FIVE THOUSAND FEET OF HELL
The Boeing 737 climbed smoothly through the thick rain clouds above North Texas, leveling off at thirty-five thousand feet. The seatbelt sign chimed, signaling that the crew could begin service.
In the First Class galley, Nadine grabbed a tray of warm mixed nuts while I prepped the beverage cart.
“How are you holding up?” Nadine whispered, leaning close.
“I’ve never felt clearer in my life,” I said truthfully.
The initial shock of seeing them together had washed over me and burnt out. What remained was a cold, crystalline focus.
I unlocked the cart wheels and pushed the service trolley down the narrow carpeted aisle. Row 1 was occupied by two corporate executives in suits who ordered sparkling water. Then I stopped the cart at Row 2.
Warren was pressed as far into the corner of seat 2A as humanly possible, trying to disappear into the plastic wall of the fuselage. Paige was staring straight ahead at the seatback screen, her knuckles white as she gripped her designer purse.
“Good afternoon,” I said, stepping into the space between their row and the one across from them. My voice was pitched perfectly—loud enough for the passengers in rows 1 and 3 to hear every word clearly. “Can I offer you a pre-meal beverage today, Mr. Bellamy?”
Warren flinched at the sound of his name. He turned his head slowly. His face was blotchy, sweat glistening on his forehead despite the cool cabin air.
“Elena... please,” he choked out under his breath. “Can we... can we talk about this? Privately? In the back?”
“I am currently performing my safety and hospitality duties, sir,” I replied with an icy, pristine smile. “If you have a drink order, I’d be happy to take it. Otherwise, I need to serve the rest of the cabin.”
Paige cleared her throat, trying to regain some semblance of control. “I’ll just have a glass of Pinot Grigio,” she snapped softly, not looking up.
“I’m so sorry, ma’am,” I said, turning my gaze directly to her. “I’ll need to see some identification before serving you alcohol.”
Paige snapped her head up, outraged. “What? Are you serious? I am thirty-two years old!”
“Airline policy,” I replied smoothly, pulling a small silver tray out. “Government-issued ID required for all passengers who appear under forty. I’m sure you understand.”
A businessman in seat 3B chuckled softly behind his inflight magazine.
Paige’s cheeks flushed a furious shade of crimson. Unzipping her beige leather bag with a violent tug, she whipped out her driver's license and slapped it onto my tray.
I picked it up, examined it casually under the overhead LED light, and read the details aloud just loud enough for row 1 to hear.
“Paige Dalton. Address in North Dallas... Ah, yes. Expiration date is fine. Thank you, Ms. Dalton.” I handed it back. “And what about you, Warren? A scotch on the rocks? That’s what you usually order when you tell me you’re spending the night at the job site, right?”
Warren looked like he wanted the floor of the airplane to open up and drop him into the ocean below.
“Just water, Elena,” he rasped. “Please. Just ice water.”
“Coming right up.”
I poured a glass of ice water and a glass of cheap house white wine. As I placed the glasses on their tray tables, I leaned down slightly—close enough that only the two of them could hear my voice over the steady roar of the jet engines.
“I hope you two enjoy the flight,” I whispered softly. “The weather in Cancun is lovely this time of year. Much nicer than the construction dust in Austin, isn't it, Warren?”
Warren’s breath caught in his throat. “Elena, listen to me. It’s not what you think. She’s... she’s a client. We’re working on a real estate investment project down there—”
“Save it, Warren,” I murmured, my eyes locking onto his with a force that made him flinch. “Save it for the police.”
Paige’s glass of Pinot Grigio slammed onto her tray table, splashing onto her coral dress. “What did you just say?” she hissed.
I didn't answer her. I gave them both another professional nod, turned my beverage cart around, and moved on to row 3.
I checked my wristwatch. It was 2:15 PM.
In exactly fifteen minutes, the scheduled email I had set up that morning would land in the inbox of Harlan Bellamy—Warren’s father and the Chief Executive Officer of Bellamy Ridge Construction.
It would also land in the inbox of Arthur Vance, the company’s ruthless external forensic accountant, and Elise Moran, my divorce lawyer.
The email contained high-resolution PDF attachments of every fake corporate expense claim Warren had submitted over the past eighteen months. It contained side-by-side comparisons of his personal travel itineraries with Paige Dalton, cross-referenced against corporate bank withdrawals totaling over $420,000.
And most importantly, it contained the passenger manifest for Flight 1142 to Cancun—proving that at that very moment, Warren was actively spending corporate funds on a romantic getaway while claiming to be at a high-stakes meeting in Texas.
I returned to the forward galley and pulled the curtain shut.
Nadine was standing there, watching the flight status monitor. “You set a trap for him, didn't you?” she asked softly.
“I didn't set a trap, Nadine,” I said, taking a sip of water. “He walked into a room he built himself. I just closed the door.”
I looked out the small oval window of the galley door. Blue sky extended infinitely above us, with thin white clouds skimming below.
Down on the ground, miles below, the clock hit 2:30 PM.
May you like
The email had been delivered.
Warren was sitting in seat 2A, completely unaware that his phone—stowed in Airplane Mode inside his leather briefcase—was about to become useless against the avalanche that was waiting for him the moment he reconnected to the world.
