“You’re Sitting in the Wrong Seat”
The words struck from behind.
A manicured hand clamped onto his shoulder and yanked.
Hot coffee spilled across his newspaper and soaked into his jeans.
“Excuse me?” Daniel said, instinctively standing.
A white woman in her late forties stood over him, flawless in a cream-colored designer suit. Her hair was perfectly styled, diamonds weighed down her wrist, and her perfume cut sharply through the air.
Without waiting, she dropped into Seat 1A.
“There,” she said, smoothing her jacket. “Much better.”
Daniel stared—less shocked by the physical act than the entitlement behind it.
“I believe you’re in my seat,” he said calmly.
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