The cabin’s laughter grew sharper, phones tilting to catch Lysandra’s reaction.
Lysandra’s fingers paused on her backpack zipper, her eyes lifting to meet the woman’s. “Am I?”
she asked, her voice so soft it barely carried. The woman blinked, thrown, her champagne glass trembling slightly.
Lysandra turned back to her bag, zipping it closed with a slow, deliberate pull, the sound cutting through the cabin’s noise like a warning.
Captain Elliot Crane was next.
He strode out of the cockpit, all swagger and pressed lapels, his aviator sunglasses tucked into his shirt, like he was auditioning for a movie.
He didn’t even look at Lysandra’s ticket.
Just sized her up—her faded sweater, her plain sneakers, her bare face—and barked: “This isn’t a soup kitchen.
Get her out of here!” The cabin erupted. Phones came out, cameras rolling.
A woman with a designer scarf and a pinched face leaned forward, smirking.
