After the worst flight of my entire career, all I wanted was to forget the arrogant man who humiliated me in front of hundreds of strangers. But the very next morning, when I walked into my childhood kitchen, there he was—sitting at the table, wearing my mother’s robe.
There’s something almost magical about being up in the sky. When you’re thousands of feet above the ground, everything below disappears—the stress, the noise, the endless to-do lists. It’s just metal, wind, and clouds.
Becoming a flight attendant was my dream. Everyone told me I should “get a real career,” but I never cared. I got the job, I earned the uniform, and I pinned on the silver wings I had dreamed about since I was little.
But no amount of training could have prepared me for that flight. The one that almost made me quit.
It started out normally. Same boarding announcements, same safety demo, same tired faces. But in seat 3A sat the man who would turn my day into a nightmare.
Tall, smug, maybe late 30s. An expensive watch gleaming on his wrist, an even more expensive sneer on his face. The second I offered him a ginger ale, he gave me a look that stripped me of every ounce of professionalism and made me feel like an object instead of a person.
“You’re too pretty to be a flight attendant,” he said with a smirk.
I forced a polite smile. “Would you like anything else, sir?”
He leaned closer, his voice dripping with arrogance. “Yeah. A date after we land, baby.”
“No, thank you,” I said quickly, walking away.
The smile vanished from his face. And that was the moment the air shifted.
From then on, he made it his mission to torment me.
“I asked for tomato juice. How hard is that?” he snapped, though I knew perfectly well he’d ordered orange.
When I passed his row, he snapped his fingers like I was his personal servant. He deliberately spilled peanuts on the floor, then called me back to clean them.
“Well, you’re basically a waitress with altitude, aren’t you?” he sneered loudly enough for half the cabin to hear.
Some passengers frowned. Others looked away, uncomfortable. My hands started trembling every time I walked past his seat.
And then came the final blow.
During beverage service, I asked him quietly—politely—to stop shouting.
He picked up his cup of tea, looked me dead in the eye, and with a flick of his wrist, poured it straight down my blouse.
The liquid wasn’t hot enough to burn, but hot enough to make me gasp and stumble backward.
He laughed. Laughed.
The cabin filled with awkward silence. No one said a word.
I barely remember finishing the flight. I remember hiding in the lavatory, tears running silently down my face, biting my lip until I tasted blood, just praying for the plane to land.
When the wheels finally touched the ground, I felt like I had survived a war.
And as he strutted off the plane, dragging his carry-on behind him, head held high, I told myself I would never have to see him again.
I was wrong.
I had a few days off and planned to spend them at my mom’s house. She still lived in the neighborhood where I grew up, the same one where my name was carved into the sidewalk out front. My parents had divorced a year ago. Dad barely called anymore unless it was my birthday.
By the time I pulled into Mom’s driveway, it was nearly midnight. The house was dark. I didn’t want to wake her, so I slipped in with the spare key, crept through the hallway I knew by heart, and collapsed into bed.
The next morning, the smell of pancakes woke me. My heart softened instantly. Mom had remembered I was coming. This was her quiet way of saying “welcome home.”
I padded downstairs, smiling.
“Good morning,” I said as I entered the kitchen.
Mom spun around in surprise. “Tessa! You’re here already?”
I laughed. “I got in late. Didn’t want to wake you. You made pancakes?”
She grinned. “Not for you. For Mike. He’s obsessed with them.”
“Mike?” I repeated, confused.
And then—he walked in.
Wearing my mother’s robe. Holding my favorite mug. That smug face. That arrogant grin. HIM.
The passenger from 3A.
My stomach turned to ice.
I looked at my mother, then at him. “Can we talk? In private.”
“Um… sure,” she said cautiously.
I pulled her into the next room, shut the door, and whispered harshly, “That man was on my flight yesterday. He humiliated me. He poured hot tea on me in front of everyone.”
Mom’s face went pale. “What?”
“I’m serious. He flirted, I said no, and he turned cruel. It was humiliating.”
Mom shook her head slowly. “Tessa… I think you’re overreacting. Mike’s never been anything but kind to me.”
“Overreacting?” I stared at her in disbelief. “He bullied me. And you’re defending him?”
“You’re just upset I’m dating again. You never liked the idea.”
“This isn’t about you dating! It’s about who you’re dating!”
“I finally feel happy, Tessa. Maybe instead of judging, you could give him a chance.” She sighed. “The pancakes are going to burn.”
She walked away.
I followed her back into the kitchen, numb, while “Mike” smirked at me like we shared some inside joke.
I wasn’t going to let it go.
Later, when they left for groceries, I searched his duffel bag. At first—nothing unusual. Clothes, sunglasses, a camera, too much hair gel.
Then I found it.
A black notebook. Filled with women’s names. Notes about them. Details.
“Likes red wine. Afraid of cats. Collects antique spoons.”
Page after page. Profiles. Case files.
And there—my mom’s name. Her favorite brand of tea, her hairdresser’s name, even a note that she liked to be called “honey” in the mornings.
My stomach dropped.
Tucked between the pages was a glossy black card:
Carlos – Professional Charmer
For when love needs a little help
Phone number. Website. That was all.
I typed the site into Mom’s laptop. It was slick. Vague. Terrifying.
“Revenge. Loyalty tests. Distractions. Emotional closures.”
Anonymous service. Emotional damage guaranteed.
My hands shook as I called the number.
“Speaking,” came his smooth, mocking voice.
I hung up immediately.
So his real name was Carlos. And he wasn’t dating Mom because he loved her. He was doing a job.
But who had hired him?
That night, I met my dad at a diner.
“I need to talk to you,” I said. “It’s about Mom.”
His eyes narrowed. “What about her?”
“She’s seeing someone. His name’s not Mike. It’s Carlos. He’s a hired seducer.”
Dad sipped his coffee, unfazed. “And?”
“And he’s targeting her! For money, revenge, something!”
“That’s not my problem,” Dad said flatly.
“Not your—? She’s your ex-wife. The mother of your child. And she’s being targeted.”
He leaned back. “Maybe she should be more careful who she lets into her life.”
The check came. He slid his wallet toward me. “Pay this, will you? I need the restroom.”
I opened his wallet. And froze.
Inside was another card. Identical to Carlos’s.
I pressed record on my phone.
When Dad returned, I looked him dead in the eye. “You hired him.”
His face didn’t move.
“You wanted to destroy her,” I accused.
He finally spoke. “She took everything. The house, the years, my life. I wanted her to feel what I felt—used. Left behind.”
“You don’t care if she’s happy,” I whispered.
“She was never supposed to be happy without me,” he said coldly.
My chest burned. “You’re disgusting.”
I left without looking back.
That evening, I sat across from Mom and Carlos.
“I have something to say. And I want you both to hear it.”
I pressed play on my phone. Dad’s voice filled the room.
“She was never supposed to be happy without me.”
Mom’s eyes widened. “What is this?”
I turned to Carlos. “Your name isn’t Mike. It’s Carlos. You’re a hired actor. My dad paid you to ruin her.”
Carlos stood quickly. “It’s not what you think—”
Mom’s voice cracked. “Is it true?”
He hesitated. “I was just doing a job.”
That was enough. She slapped him hard across the face. “Get out of my house.”
“Wait—”
“Get out!” she screamed, shoving his duffel bag into his arms. She threw his shoes, jacket, and toothbrush out the front door one by one.
Carlos stood frozen, then finally walked away without a word.
Mom locked the door and slumped against it, trembling.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I should’ve believed you.”
I hugged her tight. “You just wanted to be loved. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
She cried into my shoulder. “How did I fall for this?”
“Because you have a heart,” I said softly.
She touched my face. “At least I still have you.”
“Always,” I promised.