The first-class cabin was nearly full when Richard Dunham stepped on board, pulling his Italian leather carry-on behind him. He adjusted the cuff of his tailored suit and scanned the rows until he found his seat — 4B. Prime location. He smiled in quiet approval.
Then he saw her.
In 4A sat a woman whose frame slightly crossed into his seat space. She wore a loose gray sweater and sweatpants, her frizzy hair pulled into a quick ponytail. A worn-out backpack rested at her feet. She looked out of place—as if she’d taken the wrong flight.
Richard’s lips curled.
“Excuse me,” he said, tapping her shoulder. “This is first class.”
She looked up, startled. “Yes. I’m in 4A.”
“You’re sure?”
She nodded and showed her boarding pass with a shy smile.
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