Forced.
Marisol was probably asking questions now.
Good.
Let him explain.
Let him lie with witnesses.
You adjusted your scarf.
“I do have to serve them,” you said. “Because if I don’t, he’ll say I made a scene. He’ll say I embarrassed him. He’ll say I became hysterical.”
Andrea’s eyes softened.
“You’re allowed to be hysterical.”
You almost smiled.
“Not yet.”
That was the trick.
You did not need to explode.
Not on the plane.
Not in front of passengers.
Not while Julián still believed this was only about sex.
Because the moment he boarded that aircraft with Marisol, he revealed one betrayal.
But the company card might reveal the one that could ruin you both.
Halfway over the Atlantic, when the cabin lights dimmed and most passengers settled under blankets, you walked through first class with warm towels.
Julián was pretending to read.
Marisol was not pretending anything.
Her eyes followed you with open anger now, as if you had personally inconvenienced her fantasy.
You placed a towel beside her.
“Would you like anything else, ma’am?”
She lifted her chin.
“How long have you known?”
Julián whispered, “Marisol.”
You looked at her calmly.
“Known what?”
Her nostrils flared.
“That my relationship with Julián is serious.”
You almost laughed.
Serious.
Women like Marisol loved that word when they were still living inside a man’s version of events.
You glanced at your husband.
His face was pale.
“That is a question for Julián,” you said.
Marisol turned to him.
“Yes. It is.”
He lowered his voice.
“Not here.”
You straightened the blanket near his seat.
“Oh, I agree,” you said softly. “Not here.”
His eyes snapped to yours.
There it was.
Fear.
Not because he had hurt you.
Because he did not know what you already knew.
He reached for your wrist.
A small movement.
Possessive.
Familiar.
You moved back before he touched you.
“Please don’t touch the crew, sir.”
Marisol’s mouth parted.
The passenger across the aisle lowered his magazine just enough to watch.
Julián withdrew his hand.
“Clara,” he murmured. “Please. Don’t do this.”
You leaned slightly closer so only he and Marisol could hear.
“I’m not doing anything, Julián. I’m working. You should try it sometime without charging it to the business.”
His face changed.
That landed.
Good.
You walked away.
By the time the plane landed in Madrid, Marisol looked furious enough to chew through glass. Julián looked like a man doing math with a gun to his head.
He waited until passengers began gathering their bags.
Then he stood in the aisle and tried to block you near the front galley.
“Clara, we need to talk.”
You continued arranging landing documents.
“No, we don’t.”
“Yes, we do.”
“Not while I’m working.”
He glanced around.
Passengers were watching again.
