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She barely looks at me. Her attention remains fixed on Matteo, her gaze lingering far longer than necessary.

Blonde. Skinny. Blue-eyed. Starving for attention. How typical.

I shake off the irritation and move past her. She doesn’t offer to take my bag, but when Matteo steps in behind me, she practically stumbles over herself to relieve him of his laptop case.

Pathetic.

The flight attendant deposits his bag beside him, her hand ‘accidentally’ brushing against his rolled-up sleeve.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

I do not care. I do not care.

I move to my seat, and Matteo drops into the one directly across from me.

I steal a glance at him. Our eyes meet for a fraction of a second.

There’s something in his gaze—it’s not cold or cruel.

I don’t know what it is.

But it terrifies me.

Then, he looks away and flips open his file.

What’s going on inside that head of yours, Matteo?

Stephanie leans in unnecessarily close. “Is there anything else you need, Mr. Davacalli?” Her voice is syrupy sweet. “Water, wine…”

I nearly choke. Is she serious?

My eyes snap to Matteo, waiting for him to shut this down. But he simply nods, flipping through his file as if she doesn’t exist. “Thank you, Stephanie.”

She preens under the minimal acknowledgment. “Of course. I’m at your beck and call.”

My fingers curl against my thigh.

I do not care. I do not care.

But I do.

I unbuckle my seatbelt and rise. Fifteen minutes before takeoff. More than enough time.

Stephanie startles when I step into the galley.

“Yes?” she asks, her tone clipped.

I smile, resting my hand on the counter—making sure my wedding ring catches the light.

“Stephanie,” I say smoothly, “I get it. My husband is attractive. Most women seem to think so. And while I usually find it amusing, what I don’t tolerate is blatant disrespect. Especially not in front of me.”

Her lips part, but I lift a finger, silencing her.

“The only acceptable response here is ‘Yes, Mrs. Davacalli.’”

A pause.

“Yes, Mrs. Davacalli,” she murmurs.