He Put Her in First Class I Flew Private With His Boss (When Good Wives Get Even #5)

1. The Seat He Didn’t Save for Me

Chapter One

THE SEAT HE DIDN’T SAVE FOR ME

Ethan is already irritated with me by the time we reach the airport entrance.

Not openly, of course, because Ethan doesn’t do irritation out in public places when there are people around who might matter.

His displeasure comes in smaller, more subtle ways.

The clipped pace of his steps. The little sigh when my suitcase wheel catches on the rubber mat.

The way he checks his watch as if I’m personally responsible for time moving at its usual speed.

“It’s international travel,” I say, keeping my voice light because I’ve learned that lightness makes his moods easier to survive. “We’re supposed to be early.”

“We’re supposed to be efficient.” He glances over his shoulder, his smile appearing as two men in dark suits pass us. “You brought two bags.”

“One suitcase and one carry-on.”

“For five days.”

“For a formal wedding event in Italy, three business dinners, a rehearsal dinner, a lake excursion, and whatever emergency outfit you’ll realize you need because you forgot cuff links or black socks or the steamer.”

His mouth tightens, but he doesn’t argue with that last part. He can’t. I’ve packed the forgotten cuff links. I’ve packed the steamer. I’ve packed an extra shirt for him because Ethan always thinks one white dress shirt is enough until he spills espresso on it ten minutes before a client lunch.

He reaches for his phone instead, already moving ahead.

I follow him through the terminal, trying not to feel foolish for the little bubble of hope still tucked behind my ribs.

We’re spending five days at Lake Como. It’s a company-sponsored destination wedding event for the kind of family whose guest list includes investors, hotel heirs, and people who never ask how much something costs before ordering it.

Ethan has talked about this trip for months, sometimes with excitement, sometimes with annoyance, most often with the distracted superiority he uses when he wants me to understand that his work is too important to explain twice.

But I’ve told myself it could be good for us.

Not romantic, exactly. I’m not na?ve enough for that.

Ethan and I haven’t been romantic in a way that lasts past a restaurant parking lot for a long time.

But maybe Italy would soften him. Maybe he’d remember that I’m not a scheduling app or a spare set of hands.

Maybe, when the meetings and the handshakes and the investor charm were over, we’d sit near the water with a glass of wine, and he’d look at me long enough to see me.

That’s the embarrassing part. Not that I still want him to love me, but that I keep making room for hope.

“Ethan!” The voice rings out bright and breathless behind us.

I don’t have to turn to know who it is. Willow Moore has a voice designed to float above airport noise and land directly where she wants attention.

Ethan stops so quickly I nearly bump into his shoulder.

Willow approaches with a light gray carry-on rolling behind her, her silky platinum-blonde hair falling over one shoulder in waves that probably took an hour to look effortless.

She’s wearing pale blue linen pants, a soft white sleeveless top, gold jewelry, and enormous sunglasses pushed onto her head like she’s already on a yacht.

I’m in a navy knit dress, a camel jacket I found marked down online, and flats because I’m the person who thinks about cobblestones and swollen feet.

“There you are,” Willow says, beaming at Ethan before turning to me with a smaller, tighter smile. “Sophie. Hi. I love your jacket.”

“Thanks.”

She doesn’t love my jacket. She loves that I’m wearing a jacket in July because I’m practical enough to know airplanes are freezing and I’m unglamorous enough to care.

Ethan’s expression has changed completely. The impatience is gone, and he’s smiling like someone just opened the blinds in a dim room.

“Willow,” he says. “You made good time.”

“I barely slept. I kept thinking about the Lombardi welcome dinner and whether we need the revised seating cards printed before we land.”

He chuckles. “Always working.”

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and looks up at him. “Someone has to keep up with you.”

The sentence is ordinary, but the way she says it isn’t, and a small, unpleasant awareness moves through me, like a finger tapping on glass.

I’ve heard Ethan call Willow his work wife at least a dozen times.

I hate the phrase, but I’ve smiled through it because everyone smiles through that kind of phrase when they’re trying not to look insecure.

She’s twenty-seven, pretty, junior enough to flatter him without challenging him, and good at making him feel brilliant because she asks questions she already knows the answers to.

I’ve told myself that’s all it is, but the lie tastes thin this morning.

“We should check in,” Ethan says.

Willow falls into step beside him. Not behind him, or beside me. Beside him.

At the airline counter, Ethan takes control because Ethan prefers any situation with a counter, a gate, a host stand, or a person in uniform. He slides over his passport, then Willow’s, then mine, in that order. The agent smiles, types, checks, types again.

“Mr. Pratt and Ms. Moore, you’re confirmed in first class,” she says. “Seats 3A and 3B. Mrs. Pratt, you’re in economy, seat 28F.”

The terminal noise seems to blur until I hear only the soft mechanical hum of the baggage belt.

I look at Ethan, but he’s looking at the agent. Not at me.

“I’m sorry,” I say carefully. “That can’t be right. My husband and I should be seated together.”

The agent glances at her screen again. “The reservation shows one first-class ticket for Mr. Pratt, one first-class ticket for Ms. Moore, and one economy ticket for Mrs. Pratt.”

Willow’s mouth parts. “Oh no. Is that a mistake?” She says it sweetly, but there’s a shine in her eyes.

Ethan releases a low breath. “Sophie, it’s fine.”

I turn toward him slowly. “It’s fine?”

“It’s a long flight, and Willow and I need to work. There are documents to review before we land.”

“You need to work in first class.”

“Don’t make it sound like that.”

“How should I make it sound?”

He gives me the look, the one that says I’m becoming difficult in public. “It’s a company trip,” he says. “There are optics.”

I stare at him. “What optics require you to sit beside Willow while your wife sits twenty-five rows back?”

Willow touches his sleeve, gently resting her manicured fingers there. “Maybe they can move Sophie up,” she says. “I’d switch, but Ethan really needs me to go over everything with him.”

There’s the tapping again. Louder now. More insistent.

I look at the agent. “When was my seat assigned?”

“Sophie,” Ethan says sharply.

The agent hesitates. “Ma’am?—”

“I’m asking because I’d like to know whether this happened accidentally.”

The agent studies my face, then turns back to the screen. “The booking was modified four days ago.”

“Modified by whom?”

She pauses.

Ethan laughs once, too hard. “This is unnecessary.”

The agent says, “The change was made through the corporate travel portal.”

“Four days ago,” I repeat.

Ethan’s jaw shifts.

Four days ago, I was hemming the black dress I planned to wear to the welcome dinner because Ethan told me it looked “almost right” but needed different shoes.

Four days ago, I was printing backup copies of his presentation notes because the hotel’s business center might be unreliable.

Four days ago, he already knew where he’d put me.

Several rows back. Alone. Out of sight.

Willow lowers her eyes, but she’s smiling. Not fully. Just enough that I see it before she hides it.

The humiliation doesn’t flood me all at once. It lands in pieces.

The agent trying not to look at me. The couple behind us going silent. Ethan’s expensive watch catching the overhead lights while he rubs his thumb over the boarding pass meant for him and the woman he chose to sit beside.

I think about all the dinners where I remembered names Ethan forgot.

All the times he said, “Soph, can you handle this?” and then accepted praise for how smoothly everything went.

All the hotel rooms where I steamed his suit while he texted from the bed.

All the little corrections I absorbed because marriage, I believed, meant generosity.

The truth clears the fog in one clean sweep.

This isn’t a mistake. It’s a choice.

I take my passport from the counter, then I take my boarding pass. Seat 28F looks up at me in black print, modest and final.

Ethan leans closer. “Don’t do this.”

I fold the boarding pass once. “What exactly am I doing?”

“You’re turning a seating issue into a scene.”

“A seating issue,” I say.

Willow’s fingers are still on his sleeve.

I look at them, then at his face, and something inside me, something that’s been bending for years, straightens with a small, painful snap.

I hand the boarding pass back to the agent. “I’m not getting on the plane.”

Ethan’s smile vanishes as he grabs at the pass. “Sophie.”

I pick up my carry-on handle. My palm is damp, but my voice doesn’t shake.

“You and Willow have work to do. I’d hate to interfere with the optics.”

Then I step out of the check-in line and walk away before either of them can decide how small I’m supposed to be.