A tall, light-skinned Black man stood at the airport, dressed in a black suit and expensive glasses that made him look effortlessly elegant. He glanced at his watch and tapped his foot impatiently. He had been waiting for over an hour for the cab that was supposed to pick him up.
Frustrated, he pulled out his phone and dialed a number. After a few rings, someone picked up.
"Dad, I've been waiting at the airport for over an hour and the driver is nowhere to be seen. Where is he?"
"Sloane should be there. She left even before your flight landed," his father replied.
"She? Never mind. Send me her number."
He ended the call. A text came in almost instantly. He called the number.
"Hello, is this Sloane?"
"Who's this?" Sloane replied harshly.
"Is this Sloane? Yes or no—answer me now."
"Mr. Damien?" she asked.
"Where are you? I've been here for over an hour. You've wasted so much of my time. I don't have time for this—hurry up, wherever you are," Damien snapped.
"Sir, I've been at the airport for over four hours," she replied, her tone suddenly humble. "If I may ask, what are you wearing, sir? And where are you standing?"
"I'm in front of the airport, wearing a black suit and red shades," he replied.
"Sir, I'm seeing someone that matches that exact description. Could you please raise your hand?"
The man she had been watching raised his hand. She froze. She had been looking at this guy since he came out of the terminal—she never expected the boss's son to be a Black man.
She drove up to him, stepped out, and went to open the car door for him—but he had already opened it and was seated inside.
"So you've been staring at me for over an hour and didn't think to come get me? What kind of game are you playing?" Damien said, visibly angry. He'd been eyeing the car ever since it parked.
"I'm sorry, sir. I didn't know you were the one. I didn't expect the boss's son to be..."
She caught herself—she was about to say "Black," but that would've sounded wrong.
"...this young."
Damien didn't reply. He started texting on his phone.
"Arrogant prick," she muttered under her breath.
---
Damien stepped out of the car and looked around. Not much had changed—except the flowers. A new variety had been planted, adding more color to the compound. He took a deep breath and walked into the house.
His father was already waiting.
"Dad?" Damien said, shocked to see him in a wheelchair. This wasn't how he remembered him. The last image burned into his mind was of his father shouting, "Damien, get back here! Where are you gonna go? I'm sorry! We can figure this out!"
His mother had just been killed in a gang-related hit. The memory brought guilt bubbling to the surface. Tears welled up in his eyes as he stepped forward and embraced his father.
"Damien, I'm sorry. I've missed you so much. I wish I could stand, but the cancer has eaten away my legs," Lord Alastair said, crying.
The staff watched in disbelief. They had known him only as a cold-hearted boss, ruthless and emotionless—yet here he was, sobbing like a broken man.
"Sloane, take him to his room. Dad, I need to shower. I'll check on you afterward," Damien said.
Sloane moved to wheel him away. Lord Alastair gripped the wheel, reluctant.
"Dad, please. I'll be with you shortly."
His father finally let go, and Sloane did her job.
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