"Miss Johnson, please!" Chloe wailed, clutching at the air near Eva’s sleeve, though she dared not make physical contact. Tears streamed down her cheeks, leaving pale tracks through her foundation. "I have a family! My career in aviation—I’ll be blacklisted across the entire industry! I was only following David's lead! He told me how to handle... passengers like you! Please, I have loans, I have an apartment in the 16th arrondissement—"

Eva stopped at the top of the stairs, turning slowly to face them. The ambient light from the runway floods illuminated her sharp, symmetrical features, framing her against the vast, dark expanse of the airfield.

"You were not following orders, Chloe. You were indulging in the petty sadism that a small title allowed you to exercise," Eva said, her tone as measured as an anatomical incision. "You did not merely fail customer service standards; you violated the foundational policy of Johnson Global—that every individual within our ecosystem is treated with absolute, unyielding dignity."

"We can change! Put us on probation! Put us on cargo routes!" David practically sobbed, dropping to one knee on the metal decking of the jet bridge. "Don't destroy our lives over one flight!"

Eva looked down at him, her eyes cool and unblinking.

"It was not one flight, David. It was one flight where you were caught," she replied. "A person who is only respectful when they smell money or power is not merely unprofessional; they are a liability to the soul of this company. You have not been destroyed by me. You have been exposed by yourselves."

She turned away from them without another word, stepping down the stairs into the cool Parisian rain.

Jean-Luc Vance immediately held the umbrella high above her head, shielding her from the downpour, while two security officers stepped between the stairs and Eva, creating an impenetrable wall of broad shoulders and dark wool.

"Welcome to Paris, Miss Johnson," Jean-Luc said crisply in accented English. "The Board of the European Division is waiting at the Avenue Montaigne headquarters. They were notified of your flight plan two hours ago."

"Did you secure the preliminary financial logs I requested from the aviation subcontractor offices?" Eva asked, her boots clicking with rhythmic precision on the wet tarmac as she approached the open door of the lead Maybach.

"Yes, ma'am. Our digital forensics team intercepted the local servers at 18:00 hours, per your direct wire instruction. The data is loaded on your onboard terminal."

"Good," Eva said, settling into the plush leather rear seat of the sedan. The interior smelled of fine leather, cedarwood, and quiet power. "Let us not keep Mr. Miller waiting."

Behind her, as the heavy door slammed shut and the convoy pulled away from the tarmac, the despairing shouts of David and Chloe were swallowed completely by the roar of taxiing jet engines and the steady, rhythmic beat of the rain against the glass.

Chapter 7: The Corporate Audit

The European headquarters of Johnson Global was a towering monolith of glass, brushed steel, and classical Haussmannian stone, situated at the prestige-soaked intersection of Avenue Montaigne and Rue François 1er. From the outside, the building exuded an aura of ancient, untouchable wealth, its limestone façade meticulously cleaned, its tall arched windows reflecting the streetlamps of Paris.

Inside, however, the atmosphere was one of quiet, frantic panic.

It was 9:45 PM. Normally, the top three floors—where the executive suites, legal counsel, and vendor operations operated—were dark by this hour, save for the cleaning staff. Tonight, every floor was illuminated like a paper lantern. Word had traveled fast from Le Bourget: The global heir is not in New York. She is in the city. And she is coming here.

When the glass doors of the private executive elevator slid open on the ninth floor, Eva stepped into a sea of polished white marble and stunned silence.

A dozen senior analysts, department heads, and legal advisers stood lined up along the hallway, attempting to look composed. At the end of the corridor stood Richard Miller, the Senior Regional Manager of European Aviation Operations.

Miller was a man in his late fifties, impeccably groomed, wearing a bespoke Savile Row suit that could not quite hide the slight sweat sheen glinting on his temple. His hair was slicked back with military precision, and his smile, though practiced over three decades of corporate maneuvering, was brittle at the edges.

"Eva! My dear girl—forgive me, Miss Johnson," Miller said, taking three rapid steps forward, extending a hand clad in a heavy gold signet ring. "We were completely caught off guard by your arrival! Had I known Flight 472 carried the executive authority, I would have personally greeted you at the ramp with the entire board."

Eva ignored his outstretched hand, walking right past him into the central glass-walled conference room that overlooked the Eiffel Tower in the distance. She unbuttoned her coat and allowed an assistant to take it, revealing a sharp, slate-grey tailored suit underneath.

"If you had greeted me at the ramp, Richard, you would have spent three hours trying to manage my perception," Eva said, taking her place at the head of the long obsidian table. "I preferred to let the operational reality present itself without your curation."