The room stayed silent, the air heavy with the weight of what wasn’t said.
After the meeting, Lysandra walked to the window, looking out at the planes lined up on the tarmac.
She remembered another moment years ago, sitting in her family’s old hangar.
Her dad had been tinkering with a small plane, grease on his hands, a grin on his face.
“This is freedom, Lys,” he’d said, patting the wing. “Doesn’t matter who you are up there. The sky doesn’t judge.”
She’d been 16, her hair in a messy braid, her dreams bigger than the world.
That was before Veil Arrow Holdings became a name people whispered.
Before she learned to walk into rooms and change them without saying a word.
Back in the present, the video of her humiliation was still spreading, despite Gavin’s orders. It wouldn’t die.
Social media was a firestorm. Hashtags, memes, think pieces: “Orion’s Classism Exposed!”
