Please relocate those two immediately, Riiiip! – Story Of The Day!

At the airport, my phone buzzed with a secure message from my legal counsel. The acquisition was complete. I was now the majority shareholder and Chairwoman of Skyward Air. As we approached the First Class priority lane, Tiffany was already there, draped over Mark’s arm. The gate agent, Sarah, processed our passports, but Mark stopped her. With a chilling, bureaucratic indifference, he decided that having me in First Class was a “waste of money” and a distraction to their work. In a move of calculated cruelty, he took my printed boarding pass for Seat 2C and ripped it into confetti.

“Put her in Economy,” he told the horrified agent. “The cheapest seat you have.”

The agent whispered that the only seat left was Row 48—the last row, non-reclining, located directly against the rear lavatories. Mark laughed, telling me I belonged back there, out of sight and out of mind, while the “real earners” enjoyed the luxury. I didn’t make a scene. I simply looked at the torn paper on the floor and asked the agent to print the ticket for Row 48. But before I left, I leaned in and told her to send a message to the Lead Purser: “Vanguard has boarded.”

Row 48 was a humid purgatory. The seats were bolted upright, the air was stagnant, and the roar of the toilets provided a rhythmic soundtrack to my rising fury. Two hours into the flight, the curtain parted, and Tiffany appeared, holding a crystal glass of champagne. She came to gloat, looking at the Economy passengers as if they were livestock. She leaned over me, mocking the “cattle car” and telling me that Mark planned to leave me once the Helios deal closed. Then, as the plane hit a pocket of turbulence, she “accidentally” jerked her hand, drenching my chest and lap in sticky, yeasty champagne.

She didn’t look sorry; she looked triumphant. “Trash belongs near the sewage,” she giggled.

Something shifted inside me. The emotions—the hurt of the marriage, the fatigue of the silence—evaporated, replaced by the cold, mathematical precision I used for hostile takeovers. I pressed the call button. It wasn’t a junior attendant who answered, but James, the Lead Purser. He had been briefed and was waiting for my signal. I stood up, soaked and shivering, and told him there was a pest infestation in the cabin that needed addressing.

I walked past the golden curtains of First Class, Tiffany shrieking behind me. When I ripped open the curtain to the premium cabin, Mark was lounging with a scotch. He exploded in anger, threatening to have the Air Marshal zip-tie me to my seat for humiliating him. I didn’t flinch. I told James to turn on the cabin lights.