“Sir… your wife just welcomed you onto the plane, and you’re holding another woman’s hand.”
My stomach dropped.
I stood frozen at the entrance of Flight 742 from New York to Paris, boarding pass in hand, while the woman beside me—Vanessa Blake—clung to my arm like this trip proved she had finally won.
Vanessa looked flawless. Designer dress, sunglasses tucked into her hair, that calm, confident smile of someone who thought she had replaced another woman permanently.
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