I stood at the aircraft door in Terminal Four at JFK with my navy uniform pressed smooth, my hair pinned neatly, and the kind of professional smile that ten years of international flying had trained into something almost instinctive. It was the overnight flight to Madrid, and I was the lead purser assigned to the premium cabin, responsible for making wealthy travelers feel that distance, time, and discomfort had all been softened for their convenience.
That morning, my husband, Adrian Salvatore, had kissed my forehead in our apartment and said, “Sweetheart, this Dallas trip is important. It is a major acquisition meeting, and I should be home by Thursday night. Do not work yourself too hard.”
I believed him because belief had become a habit long before it remained a choice.
Then I saw his name on the passenger manifest.
Salvatore, Adrian.
For several seconds, I convinced myself it had to be another man with the same name, because denial often arrives politely before devastation kicks the door open. Then Adrian stepped onto the aircraft, and he was not alone.
