Daniel looked up calmly, meeting her gaze. She was immaculate—tailored suit, hair pinned perfectly, radiating authority. A boarding pass clutched in her hand displayed her seat: 3C.
“I’m pretty sure this is my seat, 1A,” he said politely.
Her eyebrows lifted, her voice sharp with impatience. “Perhaps you’re mistaken. I always fly first class. There must be some mix-up.”
Daniel gestured toward her boarding pass. “Your seat’s 3C, just a few rows back. Not far at all.”
A faint flush crossed her cheeks, quickly masked by a tight smile. “Oh… I assumed, since you’re not in business attire… Would you mind checking with the crew?”
The flight attendant, observing nearby, stepped forward. “Is there a problem?” she asked, professional but cautious.
“Yes,” the woman said, seizing the moment. “He’s in my seat.”
Daniel’s voice stayed steady, measured. “I assure you, this is my seat. But if you’d like, you can take it up with the airline.”
Her confidence wavered. She glanced at the curious eyes around her, then muttered, “I… suppose I’ll sit in my assigned seat.” She moved past him, and Daniel returned to his newspaper, the tension easing.
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