Chapter 1 - The Frost in Row 7
The cabin air smelled of recirculated dust, artificial vanilla, and the suffocating tension of people crammed into aluminum tubes at thirty thousand feet. When I walked down the narrow aisle of the Boeing 737, my eyes locked immediately onto Row 7. Julian looked up from his tablet, a bright, rehearsed corporate smile plastered across his face, ready to greet whoever was booked next to him and his mistress.
Every single drop of color drained from his face instantly, leaving him looking like a freshly exhumed corpse. His jaw dropped, his eyes bulged, and his fingers froze over the screen.
Sitting right beside him in seat 7A was Chloe—his twenty-nine-year-old marketing specialist mistress, wrapped in a designer cashmere scarf, sipping ginger ale. Julian was in 7B, right in the middle. And I calmly stepped into the row, sliding past them to settle comfortably into seat 7C.
Julian’s throat worked frantically, but no words came out. He swallowed hard, beads of cold sweat suddenly sprouting along his hairline despite the crisp cabin air-conditioning. His eyes darted wildly between me, Chloe, and the aisle behind us as if looking for a trapdoor or an ejector seat.
“Wh-what… what are you doing here, Elena?” he stammered, his voice trembling so violently that the ice cubes in Chloe’s plastic cup rattled. “I thought… didn't you say you had a design consultation in the city today?”
I smoothed down the front of my tailored wool blazer, pulled a sleek leather folio from my tote bag, and looked him dead in the eye with a terrifyingly serene smile. I tilted my head, letting out a soft, amused breath.
“Traveling,” I replied smoothly. “You know how it is, Julian. Sometimes a change of scenery is just what a person needs. Besides, you always said we should travel more as a couple. I just decided to surprise you.”
Chloe blinked her mascara-laden eyelashes, leaning around Julian’s broad shoulder like a curious meerkat peeking out of a burrow. She looked from Julian’s ashen face to my composed expression, her eyebrows knitting together in sudden, panicked confusion.
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“Julian?” Chloe whispered, her voice sharp and brittle. “Who is this? Why is she sitting in our row? You said your wife was staying home in Boston all weekend!”
Julian opened his mouth, closed it, and then looked at me like I was a ghost haunting a commercial flight. The passengers in rows 6 and 8 were beginning to notice the sudden spike in temperature, turning their heads to watch the unfolding domestic drama with open curiosity. But I didn't care about the audience. This was only act one.
