Adrian was sitting in 10C, wearing the gray cashmere sweater I had bought him last Christmas. Beside him, curled against his lap as though she belonged there, was Kelsey Vale, his twenty-five-year-old assistant with glossy lips, bright eyes, and a habit of looking at him as if every sentence he spoke deserved applause.
She was asleep. He was stroking a strand of hair away from her forehead with a tenderness I had not seen directed at me in longer than I wanted to admit.
A flight attendant paused beside them and smiled.
“Sir, would your wife like another blanket? It is getting a little cold in the cabin.”
Adrian did not correct her. He accepted the blanket and draped it over Kelsey with the gentle ease of a man protecting someone precious.
“Thank you,” he said softly. “She gets tired on longer flights.”
Your wife.
The words struck me with such force that the entire cabin seemed to narrow around them. I stood, smoothing my coat with hands that felt strangely calm, and walked down the aisle until I was beside them.
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