TARYN

The hum of the G650’s engines was a low-frequency vibration that I felt in the soles of my feet and the marrow of my bones.

Most people think being a private flight attendant is about the prestige, the layovers in Ibiza, or the crispness of the uniform. For me, the uniform was just the wrapping on a gift. My real job didn't start until we hit thirty thousand feet—the altitude where the laws of the ground, and the morals that came with them, tended to evaporate into thin air.

I adjusted my skirt, ensuring the slit rode just a fraction higher than the airline’s handbook would normally ever allow....