Derek Crawford’s Italian leather shoe struck Amara Jackson’s seven-month pregnant belly with a sickening thud that resonated through the first-class cabin. The impact sent her stumbling backward into the seat arms, instinctively clutching her belly as a sharp gasp tore from her throat.
For illustration purposes only
Around them, passengers froze, mid-motion—overhead bins wide open, conversations cut short. “Should’ve moved when I told you, welfare queen,” Derek sneered, adjusting his Confederate flag lapel pin. Amara’s hand instinctively reached for the badge hidden under her cardigan, but before she could speak, warm wetness spread down her thighs. Blood.
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