After the worst flight of my entire career, I was desperate to forget the arrogant passenger who humiliated me in front of everyone. But the very next morning, I walked into my childhood kitchen—and there he was. Sitting at the table. Wearing my mother’s robe.
There’s something strange about being up in the sky. When you’re thousands of feet above the ground, all the noise, stress, and mess of life seem far away. It’s just metal, clouds, and wind.
Becoming a flight attendant was my dream, the one I refused to let go of, even when people told me to “get a real job.” I didn’t care what they said. I worked hard, earned the uniform, and finally got my wings. But nothing—absolutely nothing—in training prepared me for that flight. The flight that almost made me quit forever.
It started normally, like any other shift. But in seat 3A sat the man who would turn the trip into a nightmare.
He was tall, maybe late thirties, with a smug face and an expensive watch that screamed money. From the second I offered him ginger ale, he gave me that look. The one that made me feel like he wasn’t seeing me as a professional, just as some object to play with.
“You’re too pretty to be a flight attendant,” he said smoothly.
I forced a smile. “Would you like anything else, sir?”
He leaned in closer, his voice low. “Yeah. A date after we land, baby.”
“No, thank you,” I answered quickly.
His eyes narrowed, and I could almost feel the air change around us. From that moment on, he made it his mission to torment me.
“I asked for tomato juice. How hard is that?” he barked, even though I remembered perfectly well he had ordered orange.
He snapped his fingers every time I walked by, like I was a servant. He dropped peanuts on the floor, then smirked as he called me back to clean it.
“Well,” he said loud enough for nearby passengers to hear, “you’re basically just a waitress with altitude, aren’t you?”
People turned to look. Some frowned, others just looked away, uncomfortable. My hands shook each time I had to pass his row.
The final straw came during beverage service. I calmly asked him to lower his voice. He just stared at me with cruel amusement. Then, with one flick of his wrist, he poured a cup of hot tea down my blouse.
It wasn’t boiling, but it was hot enough to make me gasp and stumble.
Laughter came from his seat.
I somehow got through the flight, though I barely remember how. I locked myself in the lavatory, bit my lip until it bled, and cried silently, praying for the landing gear to touch down.
When we finally landed, I felt like I had survived a war.
I watched him strut off the plane with his bag, chin high, as if nothing had happened. I promised myself I would 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, back in the quiet neighborhood where I grew up. The same place where my name was still carved into the sidewalk out front.
My parents had split up a year ago. Dad moved across town and rarely called unless it was my birthday. Mom still lived in the old house.
By the time I arrived, it was nearly midnight. The windows were dark, so I let myself in with the spare key under the flowerpot. I crept down the hallway, slipped into my old bed, and fell asleep without turning on a light.
The next morning, the smell of pancakes drifted upstairs, making me smile before I even opened my eyes. I thought maybe Mom remembered I was coming home. That was her way of saying welcome back.
Still half-asleep, I padded downstairs with a warm feeling in my chest.
“Good morning,” I said, stepping into the kitchen.
Mom spun around, startled. “Tessa! You’re here already?”
“I got in late,” I grinned. “Didn’t want to wake you. You made pancakes?”
She laughed. “Not for you. For Mike. He’s obsessed with them.”
“Mike?” I repeated.
Before she could answer, a man walked in wearing my mother’s bathrobe and holding my favorite mug.
It was HIM. The arrogant passenger. The man who poured tea down my blouse.
I froze. My heart slammed against my ribs.
I looked at Mom. Then back at him.
“Can we talk? In private.”
“Um… sure,” she said nervously.
In the next room, I whispered, “That man—he was on my flight yesterday. He mocked me in front of everyone. He poured tea on me.”
Mom frowned. “What?”
“I’m serious! He flirted, I said no, and then he turned cruel. It was humiliating.”
“Tessa… I think you’re overreacting. Mike has been nothing but kind to me.”
I stared at her in disbelief. “You’re defending him?”
“You just don’t want me dating again. That’s what this is really about.”
“This isn’t about dating! This is about him. He’s not who you think.”
“I finally feel happy,” she said softly. “Instead of judging, maybe you should give him a chance.”
“The pancakes are going to burn,” she added quickly, and walked back to the kitchen.
I followed, numb. There he sat, eating pancakes like he owned the place, smiling at me like it was all a private joke.
I knew I couldn’t let it go. Not when my own mother was falling for a man who had humiliated me in front of strangers.
That afternoon, while they went grocery shopping, I slipped into his room. His duffel bag was open. Inside: designer clothes, sunglasses, way too much hair gel.
And then I found a black notebook.
Page after page was filled with women’s names, each one with little details beside them.
“Loves red wine.”
“Afraid of cats.”
“Collects spoons.”
Profiles. Like case files.
My stomach turned when I saw my mom’s name near the back. He had even written down her favorite tea and the nickname “Honey” that she liked in the morning.
Then I found a glossy black card tucked inside.
Carlos – Professional Charmer
For when love needs a little help.
With a phone number and a website.
I typed the site into Mom’s laptop. It was sleek, vague, and horrifying.
“Revenge. Loyalty tests. Emotional closures. Distractions.”
No photos, no real info. Just promises of breakups and heartbreak—guaranteed.
Hands shaking, I called the number.
“Speaking,” said his smooth, unmistakable voice.
I hung up immediately.
I couldn’t tell Mom. She wouldn’t believe me. But maybe Dad would.
That night, I met Dad at a diner. He looked tired, distracted. We made small talk, but finally, I leaned in.
“It’s about Mom. She’s seeing someone. He’s not who he says he is. His name is Carlos. He’s a paid seducer.”
Dad lowered his cup. “And?”
“And he’s targeting her—for money, or revenge, or something.”
He shrugged. “Not my problem.”
“Not your—? She’s the mother of your child!” I snapped.
“Maybe she should be more careful who she lets into her life,” he said coldly.
The check came. He slid his wallet across the table. “Pay this for me. I need the restroom.”
I stared at his wallet. Out of instinct, I opened it. Inside was another card. Identical to Carlos’s.
My blood went cold.
When Dad returned, I held it up. “Funny. You have his card too.”
His face didn’t change.
“You hired him,” I whispered.
He looked away. “She took everything. The house, the money, the years. I gave her my life, and she moved on like it was nothing.”
“So you wanted her destroyed? You wanted her humiliated?”
“I wanted her to feel what I felt,” he said flatly. “She was never supposed to be happy without me.”
“You’re disgusting,” I spat, and walked out.
That night, back at Mom’s, I faced them both. She and “Mike”—Carlos—were curled up on the couch, laughing at some TV show.
“I have something to say,” I told them. “And I want you both to hear it.”
Mom muted the TV. Carlos smirked.
I pulled out my phone and hit play. Dad’s recorded voice filled the room:
“She took everything. I wanted her to feel what I felt. She was never supposed to be happy without me.”
Mom’s face went pale. “What… is this?”
I looked at Carlos. “Your name isn’t Mike. It’s Carlos. You seduce women for hire. My father paid you to ruin my mother.”
Carlos stood, hands raised. “It’s not what you think—”
“Is it true?” Mom demanded.
“I was just doing a job.”
Her hand flew across his face, the slap echoing through the room. “Get out of my house.”
“Wait, I didn’t mean for it to go like this—”
“OUT!” she shouted, grabbing his duffel bag and throwing it onto the lawn.
He tried to say more, but she hurled his jacket, shoes, and even his toothbrush out the window.
“I trusted you!” she screamed, her voice breaking.
Carlos stood frozen for a moment, then left without another word.
Mom locked the door, leaning against it, trembling. I wrapped my arms around her.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“No,” she sobbed. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you. I should’ve known.”
“You just wanted to be loved,” I said gently. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“How did I fall for this?” she whispered.
“Because you still have a heart.”
“And apparently terrible radar,” she tried to joke through her tears.
“You’ll find someone real one day. Someone who deserves you.”
She touched my cheek. “At least I have you.”
“Always,” I promised.