The first-class cabin had seen every kind of luxury.
Champagne flutes. Quiet money. Loud egos.
But nothing prepared them for the sound.
A newborn’s scream — not a fussy cry, not a mild complaint — a sharp, desperate wail that cut through the cabin like an alarm.
Passengers shifted. Winced. Pretended to look away.
Because the man holding the baby wasn’t just another tired parent.
He was Vince Mercer in seat 1A.
People whispered his name like it could bite them back.
Broad shoulders. Black suit. A face built for intimidation.
And yet his hands were trembling as he bounced a two-month-old against his chest, failing over and over to make the screaming stop.
A bodyguard leaned in. “Sir, we can request an early descent—”
“No.”
Vince didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.
The word landed like steel.
But the baby didn’t care about steel.
He only wanted the one thing Vince could never give him.
His mother.
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