First class was a temple of quiet wealth—linen napkins, polished shoes, and people who whispered in stock tickers and power. The boy in seat 2A fit the scene like an expensive sin.

He sat with one leg crossed over the other, gaze half-lidded behind tinted glasses, ignoring the world with surgical precision. His phone screen glowed faintly, casting delicate shadows on the fine lines of his cheekbones. He had the kind of beauty that didn’t ask permission. It demanded it.

Then came the intrusion.

“I said—that’s our seat.”

A brat, twelve maybe, already dressed like a parody of wealth. Behind him, two parents with loud opinions and hollow eyes.

“We paid good money for first class,” the woman snarled, holding her son close as if shielding him from some disease. “But his seat is better, and my son deserves it. Get him out.”

A flight attendant with bleached hair and a fake smile stepped forward. “Sir,” she said, sugar melting over rusted nails. “There’s been a slight issue. These passengers would like to take your seat. Could you please relocate to Economy for the rest of the flight?”

The boy didn’t look up.

“I’m comfortable where I am.”

The man bristled. “Entitled little bastard.”

The woman leaned closer, clearly forgetting who she wasn’t. “You’re young. You’ll survive in Economy. Don’t be selfish.”

Another voice joined in—a second attendant, older, more impatient. “This isn’t optional anymore, kid. Either you move or we’ll make you.”

Still, the boy didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just slowly slid his glasses down the bridge of his nose and finally met their eyes. Flat. Cold. Silver like winter steel.

“I don’t move,” he said. “You should have figured that out the second you opened your mouth.”

The couple gasped.

“I’ll get the owner,” the older attendant snapped, whirling away.

A mistake.

Because the owner was already here.

Fyodor Vasiliev had stepped into first class like a shadow through flame. Tall, severe in his black suit, still holding the glass of clear vodka he’d been sipping at the bar with two diplomats.

His presence didn’t announce itself. It arrived—like the drop in pressure before a storm, or the sound of a locked door behind you.

The older attendant paled instantly. “Sir—!”

But he said nothing. He walked down the aisle, eyes not on the crew, not on the passengers—just on the boy in seat 2A.

The teenager’s lips curled in a pout, glossy and deliberate as he said “I told you I wanted the private plane, Заяц.”

Fyodor’s jaw clenched almost imperceptibly at the sound of that name.

He stopped before the seat, gazing down at him, and then with aching slowness, reached out. His hand ran through his nephew’s hair—luxurious, careful, like someone touching something holy.

“I understand now,” Fyodor murmured. “Don’t be upset, зайчик мой. I should have listened to you.”

The entire cabin went silent. The greedy attendants froze. The brat’s parents looked like someone had just pressed a gun to their ribs.