Years had slipped past while he chased market shares and corporate acquisitions, leaving behind strained domestic relations and cold dinners. He had treated his own household with the same sharp impatience he had displayed toward Zara at the gate.
“What is your business in London, Zara?” Richard asked after setting down his pen, his curiosity now genuine and humble. He wanted to understand what brought the daughter of an aviation titan across the world without an entourage.
“I won an art scholarship for a summer program in South Kensington,” she replied, her eyes brightening with excitement. “My father wanted me to fly commercial so I wouldn’t grow up thinking the sky belongs to my family.”
Richard stared at her, stunned by the deliberate simplicity with which she was being raised despite immense, generational wealth. “Most executives would have sent a private jet with security teams to guard their children during transatlantic crossings.”
“Private jets make you forget that other people have destinations too,” Zara said, echoing another familiar Coleman family principle. “Dad says private cabins isolate you from reality, and once you lose reality, you make terrible decisions for others.”
Richard picked up his water glass, took a slow sip, and looked down at his own reflection in the crystal. How many terrible decisions had he made recently simply because he had become completely insulated from everyday human decency?
