“Ma’am, are you sure you didn’t mix up your ticket with someone else’s?”
Her voice was syrupy, but the edge was there, cutting. Lysandra met her eyes, calm as a lake.
“I’m sure,” she said, her voice low, steady. Tanya’s smile tightened.
She leaned closer, lowering her voice just enough to sound private, but loud enough for others to hear.
“This is first class. We have standards. That bag of yours is practically falling apart.”
A guy two rows back laughed so hard he coughed on his drink.
As Tanya hovered, a woman in a sleek red dress, her hair pulled into a tight chignon, leaned over from the next row.
She was the kind of person who always had a glass of champagne in hand, her smile practiced and cruel.
“Sweetie, this isn’t a thrift store,” she said, her voice loud enough to draw more eyes. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”
