Amara climbed onto the armrest beside Richard Hawthorne, pressed two fingers to his neck, and whispered something under her breath. Then she did something that made the flight attendant go pale. Because a little girl from the back of the plane shouldn’t know how to save a billionaire’s life… Unless she’d learned it the hard way. And when Richard finally opened his eyes again, still shaking…

And for the first time in his life…

Richard Hawthorne looked like a man who couldn’t buy his way out.

“Sir?” a flight attendant said, shaking his shoulder. “Sir, can you hear me?”

He didn’t respond.

His breathing became shallow, broken, like a machine running out of power.

The lead attendant grabbed the intercom.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a medical emergency. Is there a doctor on board?”

Silence.

No one moved.

People looked away.

People stared at their laps.

Because everyone was scared of being responsible.

“Is there a nurse?” the attendant called again, voice sharper.

Still nothing.

The panic in the cabin thickened like smoke.

And in the back row, Amara’s heart started pounding.

Because she recognized that look.

She had seen her mother’s face when she collapsed.

That same helpless fear.

That same fading.

Before she could think, Amara unbuckled her seatbelt.

She ran.

She squeezed past knees and carry-ons, ignoring the annoyed looks.

“Excuse me.”

“Sorry.”

“Please.”

Her small body pushed through the aisle until she reached the crowd gathered around first class.

She stopped.