His World Crumbling To Dust

Jackson Dorsey POV: I led the charge through the sliding glass doors of the Tom Bradley International Terminal. With Amber clinging tightly to my right bicep and my family trailing behind me, I walked with the heavy, purposeful strides of a man who owned the building. We bypassed the chaotic, winding lines of the economy check-in, heading straight for the frosted glass enclosure of the First Class VIP Lounge. Amber leaned her head against my shoulder. I saw her eyes dart toward the miserable, sweating crowds in the standard lines, a smug, triumphant smirk playing on her lips. "I'm going straight for the Chanel boutique after this," Jordan chirped loudly from behind me, making sure the people in the nearby economy line heard her. "I need at least three new bags for the beach club." We reached the plush, red-carpeted counter. The female ground agent looked up from her monitor, flashing a practiced, brilliant smile. "Good morning, sir. Welcome to First Class. Passports, please?" I didn't say a word. I just snapped my fingers, took the six passports from my mother, and dropped them onto the polished marble counter. The agent picked them up smoothly, her fingers flying over her keyboard. "Thank you, Mr. Dorsey. And where is your luggage today? I'll have the porters tag them immediately." I waved my hand in the air, a gesture of absolute, careless wealth. "We don't have any luggage. We're flying empty. We're just going to buy a whole new wardrobe on the island." A microscopic flicker of confusion crossed the agent's eyes, but her professional smile remained glued in place. "Certainly, sir. Let me just pull up your reservation." She typed for another three seconds. Then, her fingers stopped. "Ah, Mr. Dorsey," she said, her voice dropping a fraction in volume. "It appears your reservation for the six first-class suites is currently on hold. The final balance of forty-two thousand dollars has not been processed." I rolled my eyes. Hailey must have canceled the pending wire transfer just to be a nuisance. Without missing a beat, I reached into the inner pocket of my jacket, pulled out my custom leather wallet, and extracted the heavy, titanium Centurion Black Card. I tossed it onto the marble counter. It landed with a heavy, arrogant *clack*. "Run it," I said, looking past her toward the VIP security lane. The agent picked up the black card. She swiped it through the terminal. The screen facing her instantly flashed a blinding, violent red. The machine let out a sharp, electronic *BEEP-BEEP-BEEP*. The agent's smile faltered. She looked at the screen, then at the card, then up at me. She slid the heavy metal card back across the marble. "I'm so sorry, sir," she said, her tone suddenly cautious. "This card has been declined." My brow furrowed. I glared at the little black machine. "Your system is broken. That's a no-limit card. Run it again, and do it right this time." Cornelia pushed her way to the front of the counter, slapping her hand on the marble. "Do you know who we are? We are VIPs! Get your manager out here right now before I have you fired!" The agent maintained her composure, though her jaw tightened. "Ma'am, I will try it one more time." She wiped the magnetic strip and swiped it again. *BEEP-BEEP-BEEP.* The red box on her monitor practically glowed: **DECLINED - ACCOUNT FROZEN.** The sharp noise echoed in the quiet VIP area. A wealthy businessman at the next counter turned around, eyeing us with blatant irritation. Amber shifted her weight, pulling her arm away from mine just a fraction. Her face flushed pink. "Jackson," she whispered nervously. "People are staring." My face felt hot. My heart kicked against my ribs. "Fine," I snapped, pulling out my wallet again. "The chip must be damaged." I yanked out a Platinum Visa and shoved it at the agent. She swiped it. *Declined.* Cold sweat broke out on the back of my neck. My hands started to tremble. I pulled out a Sapphire Reserve. Then a Gold Amex. Then a standard Mastercard. I threw them onto the counter in a desperate, frantic rhythm. *Declined. Declined. Declined.* The agent didn't even try to hide her expression anymore. The polite smile was gone, replaced by the cold, calculating look of someone dealing with a fraudster. She pushed the pile of useless plastic back to me. "Sir, every single card is returning a code for frozen assets or insufficient funds." "Bro, are you kidding me right now?" Jordan's shrill voice cut through the tension like a knife. "Do you even have any money?! I need to buy my bags!" The words hit me like a physical slap across the face. My stomach dropped into a bottomless pit. I stared at the pile of cards. My vision blurred. Every single one of those cards... they were all supplementary. They were all tied to Hailey's primary accounts. I had never bothered to open my own credit lines because Hailey's limits were infinite. She had actually done it. She had cut my throat. A tall man in a sharp suit—the VIP lounge manager—stepped up behind the agent. He looked at my sweating face, then at my lack of luggage. "Sir," the manager said, his voice firm and completely devoid of warmth. "I'm going to have to ask you and your party to step aside. You are blocking the lane for our actual premium guests." A security guard materialized nearby. The wealthy businessman next to us scoffed loudly. Under the burning stares of the entire first-class cabin, I grabbed my useless plastic cards, turned around, and was shoved out of the VIP lane like a stray dog. I retreated behind a massive concrete pillar near the bathrooms, my chest heaving. I pulled out my iPhone, my fingers shaking so badly I could barely unlock the screen. "I'm going to kill that bitch!" I hissed through my teeth, pressing Hailey's contact name.