"Three A," Miles repeated. "It is on the pass you're holding."
Trent made a short call to the gate, turning his body so the other passengers could not see the confirmation screen. Miles heard his name, then the assigned seat, then a pause long enough for Trent to hope the information might change. "Valid upgrade," a woman's voice answered faintly from the receiver. "Confirmed in the system. He cleared before the companion waitlist."
Trent ended the call. "Okay. Thank you." He kept staring at the device for a second after the connection closed.
Then he moved closer to Preston Vance, speaking in a voice intended to sound discreet but audible three rows away. "Mr. Vance, the system cleared him first. I'm working on it."
"Working on what?" Miles asked. "The system says this is my seat."
Preston let out a little laugh. He had the broad face and bright teeth of a man accustomed to being photographed at ribbon cuttings, and he carried the confidence of someone who had never needed to search for an ordinary airline customer-service number. "Come on," he said.
"Be reasonable. My girlfriend and I are together. You're traveling alone. Surely you can manage to be a gentleman."
"I understand you want to sit together," Miles said. "But I've waited a long time for a first-class upgrade. I confirmed it at the gate. I'd like to keep it."
"Probably bought somebody else's miles," Preston muttered. "Happens all the time with people who figure out how to work the system."
Courtney drew a breath. "Preston, he has a ticket. Maybe we can just ask whether another seat opens up." She was not defending Miles so much as trying to end a scene unfolding in front of an audience, but it was the first acknowledgment that a stranger's reservation might count. Preston gave her an irritated look, and she fell silent. The silence was so familiar to Trent that he seemed to mistake it for agreement.
"Sir," Trent told Miles, "we have a lady traveling with a valued customer. An accommodation would be appreciated."
"An accommodation would have been asking me politely and accepting the answer," Miles said. "I said no."
Something cold entered Trent's expression. He leaned one hand on the overhead bin above Miles's seat, moving as if to demonstrate how much of the cabin he controlled. "You don't have to make this unpleasant." Miles saw that the bin door did not settle flush against its frame when Trent released it. The latch caught on one side but left a small gap on the other. It was not the kind of defect that justified panic, and it could be minor enough for maintenance to address on the ground, but it was visible to anyone who looked carefully.
"One more thing," Miles said. "The latch on bin three looks loose. You may want maintenance to log it before pushback."
Trent stared at him. "Thank you, sir. We have professionals for that."