Business class. A long-haul flight from London to Edinburgh. I had booked my ticket weeks in advance, securing the window seat—just wanting a quiet journey to work and rest. Everything unfolded as usual: passengers shuffled down the aisle, luggage disappeared into overhead bins, cabin crew offered sparkling water.
I was already settled when a man in a tailored Savile Row suit strode in, clutching a leather briefcase. His gaze swept the cabin before landing on me, his lip curling in open disdain.
“Bloody hell,” he announced, loud enough for the entire section to hear. “Paid for business class and I might as well be wedged on the Tube at rush hour.”
He rolled his eyes dramatically, his voice dripping with contempt. “I’ve got a crucial conference to prepare for, and now I can’t even sit properly.” He dropped into the seat beside me with a huff, jabbing his elbow into my side for emphasis. The sting of it—physical and humiliating—made me turn toward the window, blinking back tears. How could someone who looked so polished be so cruel?
The entire flight, he fidgeted, rustled papers, sighed loudly—but said nothing more. I endured it. I was used to judgmental glances. But this? This was malice.
Then, as the plane touched down at Edinburgh Airport, something shifted.
My assistant from economy approached, nodding politely. “Dr. Whitmore, shall we head straight to the conference venue after checking into the hotel? Everything’s arranged.”
The man beside me froze. I felt his stare. As my assistant walked away, he stammered, “Wait—you’re attending the conference? I heard the keynote speaker was… a Dr. Emily Whitmore.”
I met his widening eyes, lifting my handbag. “Yes. That’s me.”
His face drained of colour. He stumbled over apologies, mumbling about how he’d followed my research on neural interfaces, how he’d read my papers.
I offered a thin smile and stepped into the aisle first. He stayed rooted to his seat, as if deflated.
Perhaps now he’ll think twice before judging a book by its cover.
