Brenda didn't respond. She turned and walked toward the galley. Her heels clicked hard against the cabin floor, each step louder than necessary, like small punishments against the ground.
The jet pushed back from the terminal. Engines spooled up with a low whine that vibrated through the cabin walls. They taxied to the runway. The morning sun cut through the oval windows in long golden bars, falling across the empty seats. Olivia leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Maybe she could sleep. Maybe this flight would be uneventful. Maybe the woman with the frozen smile would leave her alone.
She was wrong about all three.
Fifteen minutes after takeoff, Captain Dale Whitfield's voice came through the cabin speaker, smooth, professional: "Cruising altitude, clear skies, estimated arrival in Savannah, 2 hours and 40 minutes."
Olivia opened her laptop, started reviewing emails she'd been too tired to read that morning: contracts, proposals, status reports. The screen light reflected off her face in the dim cabin.
From the galley, she could hear the clink of glass and china. Brenda emerged carrying a tray: a porcelain cup of coffee, a warm croissant wrapped in linen, a small glass bowl of mixed berries, and a hot towel rolled into a perfect cylinder. Steam curled up from the towel like a thin white ribbon.
Brenda walked right past Olivia without a glance. She carried the tray to the cockpit door, knocked softly, and handed it to Captain Dale with a smile so wide it could have been in a toothpaste commercial. "Here you go, Captain. Fresh and hot. Let me know if you need anything at all."
She walked back through the cabin, past Olivia again, eyes forward, like the seat was empty, like the woman sitting in it didn't exist. The scent of warm butter from the croissant trailed behind her, hanging in the air just long enough for Olivia to notice.
Olivia said nothing. She watched Brenda pass and returned to her laptop.
Ten minutes later, she pressed the call button. The chime sounded, a soft clear tone. A small amber light above her seat turned on. Brenda was in the galley, 3 meters away, close enough to hear the chime clearly. She looked up at the light, then looked back down at her magazine, turned the page, crossed her legs, and took a slow sip of her own water.
Olivia waited: 1 minute, 2 minutes, 3. The light stayed on. Brenda didn't move. 5 minutes.
Olivia didn't press it again. She just sat there with her hands folded on the armrest, watching, patient in a way that most people can't manage when they're being deliberately ignored.
At the 7-minute mark, Tara appeared from the rear galley. She saw the call light glowing amber, saw Brenda sitting beneath it reading a magazine, and hesitated. Her eyes darted between the light and Brenda's back. Her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her apron. Then Tara walked over to Olivia.