After the worst flight of my career, I swore I’d never think about that arrogant passenger again—the one who humiliated me in front of a whole plane. But the next morning, when I stumbled into my childhood kitchen, there he was. Sitting at the table. In my mother’s bathrobe.
There’s something magical about flying. When you’re thousands of feet above the ground, it feels like all your problems stay below. The noise, the stress, the mess of daily life—it all fades. Up there, it’s just steel wings cutting through the wind.
Becoming a flight attendant had always been my dream. Everyone told me to get a “real career,” but I never cared. I wanted the wings, the uniform, the freedom of the sky. And I got it. But nothing in training prepared me for that flight. The one that almost made me quit for good.
At first, it seemed like any other day. Until seat 3A filled with the man who would turn my shift into a nightmare I’d never forget.
He was tall, smug, late 30s, flashing an expensive watch and an even more expensive sneer. The kind of man who thought the world belonged to him. The second I offered him a drink, he gave me that look. The kind that strips away your uniform and reduces you to nothing but an object.
“You’re too pretty to be a flight attendant,” he said, smirking.
I forced a smile. “Would you like anything else, sir?”
He leaned closer. “Yeah. A date after we land, baby.”
My stomach churned. “No, thank you.”
His eyes darkened, and that’s when the whole flight began to spiral.
He snapped at me for mixing up his order, though I knew he’d asked for orange juice. He spilled peanuts on purpose and then sneered, “Well, you’re basically a waitress with altitude, aren’t you?”
Every time I passed his row, I felt my hands shake. Passengers stared. Some frowned, others turned away. By hour two, I was barely holding myself together.
The final blow came when I quietly asked him to stop yelling. His response? He lifted his cup of tea, locked eyes with me, and in one deliberate flick, poured it down my blouse.
The tea wasn’t boiling, but it was hot enough to sting. I gasped and stumbled back, feeling the wet fabric cling to my skin. He laughed. Out loud.
I couldn’t even remember finishing the flight. I just remembered locking myself in the tiny bathroom, crying silently, biting my lip so hard it bled, and praying for the wheels to touch down.
When we landed, he strutted off the plane with his carry-on like a king leaving his throne. I told myself it didn’t matter—I’d never see him again.
I was so, so wrong.
I had a few days off and planned to spend them at my mom’s house. She lived in the quiet little neighborhood where I grew up, the one with my name still scratched into the sidewalk outside.
My parents had split last year. Mom still lived in our house. Dad moved across town. We didn’t talk much anymore.
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 inside with the spare key, tiptoed through the hallway I’d walked a thousand times before, and went straight to bed.
The next morning, the smell of pancakes drifted through the air. My heart warmed instantly. Mom remembered I was coming. This was her quiet way of saying welcome home.
I padded down the stairs, smiling.
“Good morning,” I yawned as I stepped into the kitchen.
Mom spun around, spatula in hand. “Tessa! You’re here already?”
“I didn’t want to wake you last night. You made pancakes?”
She laughed. “Not for you. For Mike. He’s obsessed with them.”
“Mike?” I repeated.
And then he walked in. Wearing Mom’s bathrobe. Holding my favorite mug.
It was him. The arrogant passenger from 3A.
For a second, I couldn’t move. I looked at him, then at Mom.
“Can we talk? In private?” I said through clenched teeth.
“Um… sure.”
I pulled her into the next room and shut the door.
“That man—Mike, or whatever his name is—was on my flight yesterday. He poured hot tea on me. He mocked me in front of everyone.”
Mom frowned, confused. “What?”
“I’m serious, Mom. He flirted, I said no, and then he turned cruel. He humiliated me.”
Her face tightened. “Tessa… I think you’re overreacting. Mike’s never been anything but kind to me.”
I stared at her. “You’re defending him? After what he did to me?”
“You’re upset I’m dating again,” she snapped. “That’s what this is about.”
“This isn’t about you dating. It’s about who you’re dating!”
She softened just a little. “I finally feel happy, Tessa. Maybe instead of judging, you could try giving him a chance.”
I couldn’t believe it. “You don’t know who he is.”
“And you’re not a child anymore,” she sighed, brushing past me. “The pancakes are going to burn.”
That afternoon, while they went grocery shopping, I searched his duffel bag. At first, it was just shirts, sunglasses, hair gel. But then I found a little black notebook.
My hands trembled as I flipped through it. It was full of names. Women’s names. With notes beside each one.
“Likes red wine. Afraid of cats. Collects antique spoons.”
Page after page. Case files. And then—my mom’s name. Her favorite tea, her hairdresser’s name, the note that she liked to be called honey in the morning.
My stomach twisted.
Then I found it. A business card tucked between pages.
Carlos — Professional Charmer
For when love needs a little help
I typed the website into Mom’s laptop. It was vague but chilling. Services included: “Revenge. Loyalty tests. Distractions. Emotional closures.”
I dialed the number on the card.
“Speaking,” came his voice, smooth and mocking.
I hung up immediately, my skin crawling.
I couldn’t tell Mom—she wouldn’t believe me. But I knew who might.
That evening, I met Dad at a diner. He looked older, worn down, but still sharp.
“I need to talk about Mom,” I said.
“What about her?”
“She’s dating someone. But he’s not real. He’s a hired seducer. His real name is Carlos.”
Dad sipped his coffee slowly. “And?”
“And? He’s targeting her. For money. For revenge. For something.”
He shrugged. “Not my problem.”
“Not your—? She’s your ex-wife, the mother of your child!”
He leaned back. “Maybe she should be more careful who she lets into her life.”
The check came. He slid his wallet across the table. “Pay this for me, will you? I need the restroom.”
When I opened it, my heart froze. Inside was the same business card.
My blood turned cold. He hired him.
When Dad returned, I slid the wallet back. “Funny. You have his card too.”
His face didn’t flinch.
“You hired him,” I said.
He didn’t deny it.
“She took everything,” he muttered. “The house, the years, my life. I wanted her to feel what I felt.”
“You don’t care if she’s happy,” I whispered.
“She was never supposed to be happy without me.”
I left the diner with my chest burning.
That night, I sat across from Mom and “Mike”—Carlos—in the living room. They were curled up together, laughing at some silly show.
“I have something to say,” I interrupted.
They looked up. I pulled out my phone and pressed play.
Dad’s recorded voice filled the room.
“She took everything. She was never supposed to be happy without me.”
Mom’s face went pale. Carlos froze.
I turned to him. “Your name isn’t Mike. It’s Carlos. You’re a paid actor. My Dad hired you to ruin her.”
Carlos stood up quickly. “It’s not what you think—”
“Is it true?” Mom demanded, her voice shaking.
“I was just doing a job,” he admitted.
That was enough. Mom slapped him so hard he stumbled.
“Get out of my house!” she screamed.
“Wait, let me explain—”
“Get. Out!”
She grabbed his duffel bag and hurled it outside. Then she threw the rest of his belongings—shoes, jacket, toothbrush—out the window.
“I trusted you!” she cried.
Carlos stood there, stunned, then walked out without another word.
Mom locked the door, her body trembling. I wrapped my arms around her.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“No,” she said through tears. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you. I should’ve known.”
“You wanted love. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
She gave me a weak smile. “And apparently a terrible radar.”
I squeezed her hand. “You’ll find someone real. When the time is right.”
She cupped my face. “At least I have you.”
“Always,” I said.
And I meant it.