Seat 7C
My eyes snapped to the priority lane as the boarding call echoed down the jet bridge. Adrian Cole, hand on Vanessa Hale’s small of back, slipped past the first‑class gate like a phantom I’d been waiting for.
I let them glide ahead, the leather duffel in Adrian’s grip swelling with a weight I didn’t recognize. My pulse stayed steady; I’d rehearsed this moment for six weeks, every line memorized.
When the gate agent slid a stamp across my ticket for 7C, I slipped it into my pocket and turned toward the aisle. The strap of my own bag thudded against the polished floor, a subtle reminder that I was right beside them.
Seat 7C was a narrow island of calm. I lowered my carry‑on, buckled the belt, and met Adrian’s gaze as he glanced up, color draining from his face in an instant.
“Claire,” he managed, voice tight. “What are you doing here?”
I placed my hand on the armrest, the paper ticket glinting in the cabin light.
“Traveling,” I said, the word landing like a verdict.
Behind me, the flight attendants began their final safety checks, oblivious to the storm brewing in row 7.
