Weird.
I shake my head, forcing a laugh at my own paranoia. Probably just another passenger in a hurry, and I’m overtired. Still…my skin tingles where his fingers brushed my waist—like an echo I can’t explain.
I tuck the medicine bag under my arm and head back to the seating area.
Maybe it’s the lack of sleep, or maybe I’ve spent too many nights watching crime shows in hotel rooms—but for a heartbeat, I could’ve sworn that voice sounded familiar.
By the time I make it back to our little corner, the siren’s gone quiet, and the crowd’s settled into that restless airport rhythm again—rolling suitcases, boarding calls, the occasional toddler meltdown that makes me silently grateful Lily’s asleep.
She stirs as I drape the blanket over her. “You’re okay, sweetheart,” I whisper, smoothing her curls. “Just a few more hours.”
A few hours until what, though? The next flight isn’t till morning. With a sigh, I grab my passport and stand, weaving my way toward the airline counter to at least get the hotel vouchersorted. My feet ache, my head’s throbbing, and all I want is a bed and a dark room.
The woman behind the desk looks up with a tired but polite smile. “Bonjour, madame. How may I help you?”
“Hi,” I start, forcing my best polite-traveler voice. “My flight to New York was cancelled. I just need to rebook and get the voucher they mentioned.”
She types something quickly, nails clicking against the keyboard. Then she pauses, frowning slightly at the screen. “You are…Ms. Isabella Thomas, correct?”
“Correct,” I say, trying not to sound anxious.
Her expression shifts, and she smiles again—this time brighter. “You are very lucky, madame. There were some changes. You have been automatically rebooked on the next flight—it leaves in three hours.”
I blink. “Three hours? Tonight?”
“Yes. Air France 238. Direct to New York.”
For a second, I just stare at her. Relief and confusion battle inside me. “That’s…that’s great. But I thought all flights were full?”
She shrugs. “Someone cancelled last minute. Two seats together. Very good luck.”
Lucky. Right.
I sign where she tells me, still half-dazed, and take the new boarding passes. As I’m turning away, the thought flickers through my head—that hand on my waist, that low voice—and something about the timing makes me pause.
I shake it off. Coincidences happen every day. People cancel flights. The universe doesn’t conspire over seat assignments.
Still, as I push Lily’s stroller toward the gate area, my fingers tighten around the paper.
Three hours.
Enough time to breathe. Not enough to stop wondering why my pulse hasn’t quite settled yet.
By the time they call for boarding, I’m running purely on caffeine and willpower. I can’t even remember how many lattes I’ve had since Madrid—three? Five? Who knows.
As we board the plane, Lily is whining softly in my arms, her cheeks still flushed but no longer fever-hot. Her little head rests on my shoulder, curls sticking up like she’s been electrocuted. I whisper, “We’re almost there, peanut,” even though my arms feel like they might detach from my body.
The line moves forward, a slow shuffle of tired travelers and crumpled boarding passes. I scan mine again—Seat 2A—and, in my caffeine-fogged brain, interpret that as “second row somewhere near the back.”
“Welcome aboard, Ms. Thomas,” the flight attendant greets me, all polished poise and perfect lipstick. “Your seat is to the left.”
“Left,” I repeat obediently, stepping into the plane and turning right.
It takes me a full thirty seconds—and three apologetic “Sorry, excuse me, sorry again!”—before another flight attendant gently intercepts me halfway down the economy aisle.
“Madam,” she says, smiling kindly, “you’re in the wrong section. Your seat is in first class.”
I blink at her, completely blank. “I’m sorry, what?”
