By the fourth hour of the transatlantic flight, Julian’s physical discomfort and sheer exhaustion finally overtook his immense pride. His back was stiff from sitting at a ninety-degree angle, his head throbbed from the endless loop of the safety video, and his wife was shooting him glances of pure venom. He unbuckled his seatbelt, stepped heavily into the aisle once again, and walked straight toward the forward galley. This time, he didn’t try to look suave, wealthy, or superior.
He found Sarah organizing the breakfast trays and dropped the charming performance entirely. “Look,” he said in a low, flat voice, “I’ll be completely honest with you. The suite isn’t working. It’s an absolute nightmare in there. We’d genuinely like to move back to our original assigned seats—3C and 3D. Can you help us move?”