Chapter 10 - The Paris Flight
Six months after that Valentine’s Day evening, I sat in the executive lounge at Charlotte Douglas International Airport.
The room was quiet and peaceful, filled with soft piano music and the gentle hum of air conditioning. Outside the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, massive commercial airliners glided along the runways under a brilliant blue autumn sky.
My leather handbag sat beside me on the velvet armchair. Inside it were two fresh documents: a finalized decree of absolute divorce issued by the state court three days ago, and a single first-class ticket to Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris.
I didn't buy two tickets this time. I only needed one.
The lounge announcement chime sounded softly overhead.
"Boarding call for Flight 412 to Paris-Charles de Gaulle now open for First Class passengers at Gate 14."
I stood up slowly, picking up my handbag and my lightweight trench coat.
As I walked out of the lounge toward the international terminal, my phone vibrated in my coat pocket.
I pulled it out and looked at the screen. It was a notification from the company's internal news portal.
WHITMORE DYNAMICS ANNOUNCES RECORD Q3 PATENT EARNINGS; NEW SCHOLARSHIP FUND LAUNCHED IN HONOR OF SAMUEL WHITMORE.
Below the headline was a photograph of the main lobby. The silver banner from six months ago was gone. In its place, mounted securely onto the main stone wall near the entrance, was a bronze plaque featuring my father’s face, alongside his favorite quote:
“A company is not made of concrete and glass. It is made of the honor of the people inside it.”
I smiled, saved the image to my phone gallery, and slipped the device back into my pocket.
I walked down the long, carpeted jetway toward the open door of the aircraft. The flight attendant stood by the entrance, wearing a crisp uniform, offering a warm, professional smile as I approached.
"Welcome aboard, ma'am," she said politely, checking my boarding pass. "Flying for business or pleasure today?"
May you like
I looked past her into the sleek, peaceful cabin of the airplane, feeling the quiet, steady strength sitting deep in my chest—the frame my father had built, tested by fire, restored by truth, and standing completely on its own.
"Neither," I replied, stepping onto the plane with a clear heart and a light step. "I'm flying for myself."
