Listen, Mrs. Vanderhovven stepped closer, invading his personal space. She smelled of overpowering Chanel number five and gin. I don’t know what affirmation program got you a discount ticket or whose credit card you stole to buy it, but this is the real world. In the real world, people like me sit here.
People like you sit in the back. Now get up before I call security and have you dragged off. Marcus looked deep into her eyes. He saw the absolute certainty of her privilege. She truly believed she could move him like furniture. Are you threatening me? Marcus asked softly. I’m educating you, Mrs. Vanderhovven spat.
She looked at Jessica. Well, are you going to do your job or do I need to call your manager? Jessica panicked. She signaled to Brad. Sir, grab your bag. You’re causing a disturbance. We cannot depart with a hostile passenger on board. Hostile? Marcus chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. I haven’t raised my voice. I haven’t moved. She is the one shouting.
Your refusal to comply is an act of aggression, Brad said, stepping up. Brad was large, ex-military, maybe with a jaw that jutted out. He put a hand on Marcus’s shoulder. A heavy hand. That was the mistake. Marcus glanced at the hand on his shoulder. Take your hand off me. Stand up,” Brad commanded, squeezing harder.
“Now strike two.” The tension in the cabin was thick enough to choke on. The other first class passengers were watching with a mix of horror and fascination. Some looked uncomfortable, shifting in their seats, but nobody spoke up. Nobody wanted to cross Eleanor Vanderhovven. Marcus stood up.
He was taller than Brad expected, 6’3″ of lean muscle. When he rose, he loomed over the flight attendant. Brad took a half step back, his hand falling away. Finally, Mrs. Vanderhovven huffed, adjusting her fur coat. Wipe down the seat, Jessica. God knows what he has. Marcus stepped into the aisle, but he didn’t move toward economy.
He stood his ground, blocking the path. I want to speak to the captain, Marcus said. The captain is busy prepping for takeoff, Jessica snapped, trying to herd him backward. You will take your seat in 24B, or you will be escorted off the plane by federal marshals. Those are your options. I don’t think you understand, Marcus said, his voice dropping an octave becoming dangerously smooth.
I am giving you a chance, Jessica. I am giving all of you a chance to rectify this. Check the manifest again. Look at the name. Really look at it. I don’t care if your name is Barack Obama, Mrs. Vanderhovven shouted, slamming her hand on the overhead bin. This is my airline.
I havebeen flying with the Vance family for 20 years. I know the CEO, Jonathan Vance, personally. We had dinner in the Hamptons last summer. Do you want me to call him? Do you want me to call Jonathan and tell him a thug is harassing me in his cabin? Marcus’s lip twitched, a micro expression of amusement. Jonathan Vance, the former CEO, the man who had sold the company because he was drowning in gambling debts, the man Marcus had signed the papers with 5 hours ago. Call him, Marcus challenged.
Go ahead, call Jonathan. Mrs. Vanderhovven pulled out her goldplated iPhone. Oh, you are going to regret this. You are going to rot in a cell. She dialed furiously, putting the phone to her ear. He won’t pick up, Marcus said. She ignored him. [clears throat] “Voicemail,” she screamed. She looked at Jessica. “Get the captain.
