Chapter 6 - When the Mask Slips
The moment the aircraft doors opened, Richard pushed his way past an elderly couple and practically sprinted down the narrow jet bridge. His walk was awkward and stiff; every step in his unlaced, sockless leather shoes caused him visible agony, but he was moving with the manic energy of a man trying to outrun a public execution. Clara and I took our time gathering our belongings, exchanging satisfied smiles as we leisurely strolled toward the terminal exit.
When we stepped into the crowded gate area, the scene was utter chaos. Richard had not even made it twenty yards before a young man in a dark tailored suit—presumably Jonathan, his terrified personal assistant—came rushing toward him through the crowd, carrying a large brown paper bag.
""Mr. Vance! Mr. Vance! I have the supplies!"" Jonathan shouted, breathing heavily as he reached his boss. ""I got the highest concentration acetone they had at the pharmacy, plus three different brands of scrubbing pads, but the traffic on the Kennedy Expressway was insane—""
""Shut up, you idiot! Give me that!"" Richard snarled, snatching the bag out of Jonathan's hands right in the middle of the terminal concourse. Without a shred of shame or decorum, Richard dragged his assistant toward a bank of empty plastic terminal seats, dropped his briefcase onto the floor, and immediately ripped his expensive shoes off his feet.
Dozens of passing travelers stopped dead in their tracks to watch. Richard Vance, managing partner of an elite private equity firm, was sitting cross-legged on an airport chair, desperately pouring industrial-grade chemical nail polish remover directly onto a paper napkin and furiously scrubbing his bare toes in broad daylight.
""It’s not coming off, sir!"" Jonathan stammered, kneeling awkwardly on the dirty linoleum floor beside him. ""The woman at the store said that high-end glitter polish has an acrylic bonding agent! It takes at least twenty minutes of soaking in pure acetone to dissolve!""
""I don't care! Scrub harder!"" Richard barked, his voice carrying across the entire concourse. ""Mr. Sterling is waiting in the executive lounge right now! If I walk into that boardroom smelling like cheap perfume and looking like a carnival clown, our firm loses forty million dollars! Use your fingernails if you have to!""
Several passengers who had been on our flight walked past, pointing and bursting into fresh rounds of laughter. Clara pulled out her phone and snapped a quick, crystal-clear photograph of Richard furiously scrubbing his magenta toes while his assistant frantically wiped away the pink streaks running down his pale ankles.
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""This is poetry,"" Clara whispered, shaking her head in sheer awe. ""Pure, unadulterated poetic justice.""
Just as Richard managed to smear the glitter across his entire foot, turning his skin into an angry, glowing red-and-pink rash, a tall, imposing figure with silver hair and a sharp wool overcoat emerged from the crowd, flanked by two private security officers. It was Arthur Sterling himself.
