The business class cabin hums softly as passengers settle in for the long flight across the Atlantic. I booked my window seat weeks agojust wanted a quiet journey to catch up on work and rest. Everything seemed ordinary: travellers stowing luggage, flight attendants offering water.
Id just arranged my things when a man in a sharp suit strode in, leather briefcase in hand. He surveyed his seatright beside minethen flicked his gaze to me, curling his lip.
“Bloody hell,” he announced, loud enough for nearby passengers to hear. “Paid for business class, not some overcrowded Tube carriage at rush hour.” He rolled his eyes and shot me a disdainful look. “Im heading to a crucial conference. Need to prepare, and now I cant even sit properly.” He flopped into the seat, elbow jabbing pointedly into my side.
The words stung, but the elbow hurt more. I turned to the window, blinking back tears. Never imagined someone so polished could be so cruel.
The entire flight, he fidgeted, rustled papers, and huffedbut stayed silent otherwise. I endured it. I was used to judgmental stares, but not outright malice.
Then, as the plane touched down in London, something unexpected happened.
My assistant, whod been in economy, approached. “Ms. Whitmore,” he said politely, “shall we head straight to the conference venue after check-in? Everythings ready.”
The man beside me froze. I felt his stare. My assistant left, and suddenly, his tone flipped entirely.
“Apologies youre attending the conference too? I heard a Dr. Whitmorea renowned scientistis speaking.”
I took my bag and stood. “Yes,” I said evenly. “Thats me.”
He paled, stammering something about admiring my research, my lecture on cognitive tech.
I offered a polite smile and stepped past him. He slumped, deflated.
Perhaps next time, hell think twice before judging someone by their appearance.
