"It's my phone, with my name on my booking."
Brenda held the stare for 3 full seconds. Then she stepped aside, barely. Olivia had to turn sideways to squeeze past her. Their shoulders touched, and Brenda pulled back like she'd brushed against something dirty.
Olivia walked into the cabin. The jet was beautiful: cream leather seats, warm wood paneling, soft recessed lighting that made everything glow. A cashmere blanket was folded neatly on the forward seat—the main seat, her seat. A small vase of fresh white roses sat on the side table. A chilled bottle of sparkling water was waiting, label facing forward.
Olivia set her bag down and lowered herself into the forward seat.
"Excuse me."
She looked up. Brenda was standing over her, arms folded.
"That seat is reserved."
"Reserved for who?"
"For the client."
"I am the client."
Brenda's lips pressed into a thin line. "I was told the owner might be sending a representative today. I think there might be some confusion about seating. The rear cabin is very comfortable. You'd have more privacy back there."
There was no rear representative. There was no confusion. The manifest said one passenger, Ms. Johnson, and Olivia was sitting in the seat that had been prepared for exactly that person. But Brenda could not accept it, could not process it. Her brain had already sorted Olivia into a category, and that category did not include owning a $60 million jet.
"I'm fine right here," Olivia said quietly.