Chapter 1 - The Weight of First Class
The cabin air in seat 3A was sterile, chilled to a precise sixty-eight degrees, and completely suffocating. Julian sat rigidly against the butter-soft Italian leather, his tailored dark polo sticking to his back. In his arms, three-month-old Leo was arching his tiny spine, face mottled crimson, releasing small, jagged wails that pierced the quiet hum of the Boeing 777.
On the mahogany fold-out tray rested three specialized designer bottles. Organic formula, European pasteurized goat milk, warm electrolyte solution—all measured, heated with frantic care, and violently spat out. Julian had spent six figures on specialists, private nurses, and first-class tickets to escape New York after the funeral, yet money felt completely useless at thirty-five thousand feet.
"Excuse me, sir," a man in seat 4B muttered, snapping his financial newspaper shut with deliberate annoyance. "Some of us have morning acquisitions in London."
Julian swallowed his defensive pride, offering a weary, apologetic nod. "I’m sorry. He’s... he’s having a hard time."
Suddenly, soft footsteps stopped in the carpeted aisle. Julian looked up, bracing for a reprimand from a flight attendant. Instead, standing beside his pod was a young girl, no older than six or seven, wearing an oversized, hand-knitted cream sweater and dusty pink cotton trousers. Her dark wavy hair framed an impossibly calm, luminous face. She was clearly from the packed coach section beyond the blue curtain.
Julian’s voice emerged hoarse and frayed: "He refused three bottles. A child from economy cannot solve this."
The girl didn't flinch. She simply tilted her head, taking in the trembling baby and the stiff, terrified posture of the grown man.
"He doesn't want another expensive bottle," Julian whispered, the veneer of wealth cracking entirely under sheer exhaustion. "What do you think he needs?"
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The girl stepped closer, her small, warm hand gently resting on Leo’s forehead. Her brown eyes met Julian’s.
"Just you," she said softly.
