Arrogant Billionaire Heir Threw Wine on Flight Attendant, Little Did She Know He Was the Owner

The Gala of Wrath

The Grand Astoria ballroom was a spectacle of wealth, its gold-gilded walls shimmering under the light of colossal crystal chandeliers. Amber refractions danced across the polished Carrara marble, reflecting the tuxedoed elite. Burgundy velvet drapes added a touch of opulence, and the air buzzed with the clinking of champagne flutes. It was the pinnacle of New York society, and I, Victoria Sterling, was its queen. Dressed in a backless emerald silk gown, adorned with diamonds, my platinum blonde updo immaculate, I exuded an air of haughty entitlement. My manicured scarlet nails tapped impatiently on the table.

Then, the flight attendant, Noah, approached. Young, athletic, with a crisp navy waistcoat and gleaming brass wings, he seemed out of place amidst the grandeur. His gentle hazel eyes met mine, and I felt a flicker of annoyance. He was too… earnest. I gestured dismissively with my goblet, filled with a deep crimson Bordeaux.

"A lowly drink-cart servant doesn't belong in my sight, let alone serving my VIP table!"

With a sneer, I hurled the wine. It arced through the air, a viscous red projectile, before exploding against his pale skin. The impact was shocking, the sound a wet, visceral splash. His white collar and the proud brass wings were instantly stained. His breath hitched, his chin quivered. Tears welled, but he held them back, his fists clenched behind his back. The ballroom, moments before alive with chatter, fell into a suffocating silence. Noah remained frozen, a statue of shocked dignity.

Before I could savor my victory, a hand shot into frame. A powerful, calloused hand, it intercepted my own just as I was about to deliver a vicious backhand slap. The kinetic impact thudded, decelerating my motion with bone-jarring force. It was Arthur Vance, the quiet passenger from the adjoining table. His slate-blue eyes, sharp and piercing, bored into mine. He was older, his jaw chiseled, his hair steel-gray, dressed in a simple cashmere sweater. He hadn't said a word, but his grip was iron.

"Unhand me this instant, you destitute freak, before I have security throw you onto the street!"

I hissed, outraged. But he remained silent, his jaw clenched, his gaze unwavering. The air crackled with unspoken tension, the silence of the ballroom amplifying the drama.