A group of men in expensive golf attire paused their conversation to stare openly, their faces a mixture of curiosity and barely concealed disdain.
“I heard she started as a cleaning lady,” one of them stage-whispered, causing his companions to snicker. “Guess she cleaned up pretty well.”
Sasha’s jaw clenched, but Alicia touched her arm gently.
“Remember what we discussed,” she said softly. “Their words reveal more about them than us.”
As they approached the main gathering area, the consortium’s owners stood in a tight circle, their backs deliberately turned. Only when Alicia and Sasha were a few feet away did they slowly turn around, their faces arranged in artificial smiles.
“Ms. Rhodes,” said Victor Sterling, the consortium’s lead partner, extending his hand with obvious reluctance. “You’re punctual. I’ll give you that.”
“Mr. Sterling,” Alicia replied, her handshake firm and professional. “Thank you for hosting us today.”
“Yes, well,” he said, withdrawing his hand quickly and wiping it discreetly on his jacket. “We do try to be inclusive these days.”
The other owners exchanged knowing looks, their smirks poorly hidden behind expensive sunglasses. One of them, Charles Whitman III, stepped forward with an exaggerated bow.
“It’s quite bold of you,” he said, his voice dripping with false admiration, “to dream so big.”
He emphasized the last word as if it were a joke only his peers would understand.
Sasha shifted the portfolios in her arms, her discomfort visible only to Alicia, who had learned to read her assistant’s subtle cues. The young woman’s usual confidence was being tested by the thick atmosphere of prejudice surrounding them.
“We’ve prepared the aircraft for your demonstration flight,” Sterling announced, gesturing vaguely toward the far end of the airfield. “If you’ll follow me.”
They walked as a group, with Alicia and Sasha noticeably separated from the others. The owners continued their conversation as if the two women weren’t present, discussing their recent yacht purchases and exclusive club memberships.
“Speaking of the club,” one owner said loudly, “we really must be more careful about our membership criteria. Some people simply don’t understand our traditions.”
The farther they walked, the more obvious it became that they were heading away from the pristine jets near the main hangars. The well-maintained tarmac gave way to older, cracked concrete.
The gleaming aircraft grew scarcer, replaced by older models in various states of repair.
Sterling finally stopped near a hangar that had seen better days. With a flourish that couldn’t mask his smirk, he gestured to an aircraft partially hidden inside.
“Here we are, Ms. Rhodes. Your demonstration model.”
Alicia and Sasha stood in silence, taking in the sight before them. The jet was at least 20 years old.
Its once-white exterior was now a dingy gray. Dust and grime covered the windows, and one of the wheel covers was visibly rusted.
“We thought this would be more appropriate for your needs,” Whitman added, not even trying to hide his amusement. “After all, we wouldn’t want you to feel overwhelmed by anything too sophisticated.”
The other owners chuckled openly now, their earlier pretense of politeness abandoned. One of them pulled out his phone, clearly eager to document what they assumed would be Alicia’s humiliation.
The aircraft sat there like a prop in their cruel joke, its condition a deliberate insult to everything Alicia had built. This wasn’t just a used plane.
It was a message, carefully chosen to put her in her place.
Sasha’s breath caught audibly, her eyes wide with disbelief and growing anger. The portfolios in her arms trembled slightly, but she held her position, waiting for Alicia’s response.
The owners watched expectantly, their faces showing the satisfaction of people accustomed to wielding power as a weapon. They clearly anticipated tears, outrage, or desperate attempts to salvage the situation.
Any reaction that would confirm their assumptions about this woman who dared to enter their exclusive world.
Sterling spread his hands in a gesture of mock concern.
“Is something wrong, Ms. Rhodes? This is a perfectly functional aircraft. Some might say it’s more your style.”
The morning sun had climbed higher, casting harsh shadows across the scene. The contrast between this neglected corner of the airfield and the gleaming jets in the distance couldn’t have been more stark or more intentional.
Alicia stood motionless before the aging aircraft, her expression unreadable. The morning breeze carried more snickers and whispers from the growing crowd of onlookers.
Several guests had wandered over, drawn by the spectacle the owners had orchestrated.