Part 1:
I stood at the aircraft door in Terminal 4 at JFK, dressed in my perfectly pressed navy uniform, hair neatly pulled back, wearing the polished smile that ten years of international flying had made instinctive. It was a red-eye to Madrid, and I was leading the premium cabin, making sure every wealthy passenger felt comfortable and important.
That same morning, my husband Adrian had kissed my forehead and told me he was flying to Dallas for an important business meeting. I believed him, because believing had long become a habit. Then I saw his name on the passenger list. Adrian Salvatore. For a few seconds, I convinced myself it had to be someone else. But then he boarded the plane. And he wasn’t alone.
A younger woman walked beside him, elegant and confident, wrapped in luxury as if it belonged to her. His hand rested on her back in a way that said everything before either of them spoke. Her eyes met mine, and in that instant, I saw the certainty in her expression falter.
I didn’t react. I didn’t cause a scene. I straightened my shoulders and smiled professionally.
“Welcome aboard, Adrian. I hope your Dallas trip is going well.”
