Please relocate those two immediately, Riiiip!

Row 48 was stifling. The seats were rigid, the air stale, the constant hum of the toilets a relentless reminder of my exile. Two hours into the flight, the curtain parted and Tiffany appeared with a champagne flute. She surveyed the cabin with disdain, leaned close, and mocked the “economy zoo.” She informed me that once the Helios deal closed, Mark planned to leave me. Then turbulence jolted the plane, and she “accidentally” spilled champagne down my front.

She smiled. “Garbage belongs near sewage.”

Something inside me snapped cleanly into focus. The pain dissolved, replaced by the same cold clarity I used in corporate takeovers. I pressed the call button. James, the Lead Purser, arrived—calm and prepared. I told him there was a pest issue that needed immediate resolution.

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