They both glanced back at Marcus and snickered. Marcus didn’t react. He didn’t frown. He didn’t get angry. He simply reached for the complimentary water bottle, cracked the seal, and took a sip. He checked his mental ledger. Strike one. 10 minutes later, the cabin pressure shifted. It wasn’t mechanical. It was social.
A flurry of commotion erupted at the jet bridge entrance. Two porters struggled with four oversized Louis Vuitton trunks, maneuvering them into the cabin. Behind them walked a woman who looked like she had been sculpted out of marble and resentment. Mrs. Elellanena Vanderhovven. Marcus recognized the name immediately. She was the widow of a real estate tycoon, a woman famous in New York social circles for her charity galas and infamous for her treatment of service staff.
She was wearing a white fur coat that probably cost more than a midsized sedan and large sunglasses despite being indoors. She stopped in the aisle, removing her sunglasses with a dramatic sweep of her hand. Her eyes, sharp and blue, scanned the cabin until they landed on seat 1A. They landed on Marcus. Her face didn’t just fall. It curdled.
She turned to Jessica, who was practically bowing as she approached.”Jessica, darling,” Mrs. Vanderhovven said, her voice loud enough to carry to the cockpit. “There must be a mistake. I specifically requested seat 1A. It has the extra leg room for my corgi.” She gestured to a small carrier bag held by her personal assistant, a terrified looking young woman trailing behind her.
Jessica’s face pald. Mrs. is Vanderhovven. I I apologize. The system showed 1A was booked when your assistant called. We have you in 1B, right across the aisle. It’s identical. It is not identical. Mrs. Vanderhovven snapped. 1A is on the left. I sleep on my left side. I cannot sleep facing the aisle. Jessica, you know this.
