My pulse jumps. Right. No time for airport enemies.
I grip my carry-on, clutch the boarding pass in my hand, and hurry toward the gate with everyone else.
By the time I’m in the jet bridge, my palms are damp. By the time I actually step onto the plane, I’m trying so hard to look calm that I’m probably doing the opposite.
The air hostess at the door smiles brightly. “Welcome aboard.”
I smile back in what I hope is a normal, non-panicked way and hand over my boarding pass.
She glances at it, then at me, and her smile widens. “Welcome aboard, Ms. Yuri.”
I blink.
Wait, that’s not my name.
I open my mouth. “Actually, I think that’s not mine, I just?—”
But she’s already turning away, gesturing smoothly toward the front of the plane. “This way, please.”
I stop for a second, confused enough that people behind me start bunching up in the aisle.
“Sorry,” I mumble, then follow where she pointed.
The seats get bigger.
Then bigger.
Then suddenly I am very much not in the section I thought I paid for.
Business class.
I slow, looking around at wide seats, soft lighting, little bottled waters already waiting in holders, blankets folded with suspicious neatness, and people who look entirely too comfortable with all of it.
This is definitely wrong.
I glance down at the boarding pass in my hand.
Yuri.
Oh.
Oh, no.
The bald man. We switched boarding passes.
Of course we did.
For one ridiculous second I consider going back, trying to explain, fixing it before someone notices and marches me out of this section like a trespasser. But then another flight attendant passes behind me, smiling as though nothing at all is wrong, and I realize two things at once.
One, I don’t remember my actual seat number.
And two, I’m now standing in the aisle of business class with other passengers watching, and if I keep hovering here much longer I’m going to make a scene.
So I sit.
Just for a second, I tell myself. Just until I figure it out. Just until the bald man comes stomping down the aisle looking for his seat and I can swap back.
I lower myself into the seat and set my bag down by my feet, trying not to touch anything too reverently in case that gives me away. The leather is ridiculously soft. There’s an actual menu tucked into the pocket beside me. A glass of something sparkling appears at my elbow as if summoned by class privilege alone.
