Chapter 11
For the remaining four hours of the flight, Julian sat alone in seat 2A, surrounded by the quiet hum of the engines and his own ruin.
Passengers in the first-class cabin whispered among themselves, recognizing the disgraced CEO whose company news was already breaking on satellite media.
The morning sun began to break over the European horizon, casting a brilliant golden light through the cabin windows as we descended into Spain.
At 6:15 AM local time, the tires of the Boeing 787 touched down smoothly on Runway 32L at Madrid-Barajas Airport.
As the aircraft taxied toward Terminal 4, I stood by the main exit door, preparing for passenger deplaning.
Standing right outside the glass jet bridge window were four uniformed officers from the Spanish Guardia Civil, flanked by two Interpol agents.
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Julian gathered his small travel bag, shuffling toward the exit door with his eyes glued to the floor, looking entirely broken.
He stepped across the threshold of the aircraft door, stopping right in front of me as the cool Madrid air filled the jet bridge.
