Seat 14C—And a Twist of Fate
I slipped into my aisle seat and took a breath.
Then he sat down next to me.
Mr. Armani Attitude himself—Seat 14B.
He blinked, recognizing me. “Oh,” he said, lips curling. “You again.”
“Try not to faint,” I muttered.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he grumbled, pulling out his phone. “I paid for legroom, not a lecture.”
I didn’t respond. I’ve stitched up gang wounds and comforted grieving parents—I wasn’t going to waste energy on this guy.
He ordered two scotches before takeoff. Tapped his fingers on the tray like a stock ticker. He was a cocktail of ego and caffeine.
Then—an hour into the flight—everything changed.
