she was apparently incapable of taking a vacation without reviewing specifications. Daniel had teased her about the spreadsheet she made for their trip. In return, she had pointed out that he had researched the Paris transit system as if preparing a regulatory assessment. They had agreed to put both spreadsheets away once the airplane took off.
Karen Miller stood just inside the aircraft entrance in a crisp uniform with her blond hair pinned neatly above the collar. She had twenty years with Global Air, an impeccable service record on paper, and a reputation among newer attendants for knowing which passengers deserved extra attention. A businessman ahead of Daniel had received a broad smile and a compliment on his luggage. An older white couple had been addressed warmly, and Karen had volunteered to take the woman's coat. When Daniel handed over his boarding pass, Karen's expression shifted with the swiftness of a curtain pulled across a window.
"Welcome aboard," she said, though the welcome sounded more like a question. Daniel told her they were in seats 2A and 2B, and she examined both boarding passes longer than he expected. Her gaze moved from the names to the seat numbers and then to their faces. "First class is forward," she said, carefully stressing the words. Alana answered, "Thank you. We know where we're going," in the same pleasant voice she had used with the gate agent.
Their seats were beautiful. The soft lighting illuminated navy upholstery and polished surfaces, and a small vase of fresh flowers stood near the forward galley. Alana settled beside the window, then leaned toward Daniel to show him the weather forecast in Paris: mild temperatures and a chance of rain on their first evening. "Perfect," she murmured. "An excuse to walk slowly under one umbrella." Daniel told her he had packed two umbrellas because he believed in contingencies, and she shook her head affectionately.
Across the aisle, a businessman with a dark briefcase was reviewing financial documents. Behind them, a college student named Sophie Grant, traveling to visit her sister in France after a semester abroad, was trying to fit a paperback book into her seat pocket. Two rows farther back sat a retired couple celebrating their own anniversary. The passengers were occupied with the ordinary private rituals of departure: arranging a pillow, finding a charging cable, adjusting a reading light. Nobody was expecting the cabin to become the setting for an argument about who had the right to occupy a purchased seat.
Karen appeared with a silver tray holding champagne, sparkling water, and orange juice. She offered Daniel and Alana champagne, then hesitated before passing the glasses to them. "Are you familiar with how this cabin works?" she asked. "We sometimes get unexpected upgrades, and passengers aren't always prepared for the service." Alana thanked her for the explanation and said they had flown premium cabins before. Karen's eyes lingered on Alana's face as if searching for evidence that contradicted the answer.
Daniel felt the familiar tightening of a muscle he wished he no longer possessed. He had encountered that look in hotel lobbies where staff assumed he was delivering a package, at conferences where people handed him their empty glasses, and in executive waiting rooms where receptionists questioned his appointment after admitting