738 "My husband boarded my flight to Madrid with another woman on his arm, wearing a $12,000 necklace he'd bought with our company's money. He expected me to make a scene when he saw me at the door. Instead, I smiled, showed him to seat 2A, and waited until we reached 30,000 feet to start destroying the secret life he'd built behind my back.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Miller speaking from the flight deck. We have begun our final descent into Adolfo Suárez Madrid–Barajas Airport. Weather in Madrid is clear and sunny, with a ground temperature of 18 degrees Celsius. We expect to be at the gate in approximately twenty minutes."

The plane dipped beneath the cloud layer, the sprawling, sunlit metropolis of Madrid appearing through the windows. The rolling hills, white buildings, and winding highways spread out like a painting below us.

In seat 2A, Julian sat completely motionless. He had stopped yelling, stopped fighting, and stopped demanding access to the phone. He sat staring blankly out the window, his shoulders slumped, his face grey. The reality of his situation had finally crushed him.

Beside him, Chloe was crying silently, wiping tears from her cheeks, taking off the $12,000 Cartier panther pendant and trying to slide it into her purse, as if removing the piece of metal could erase her involvement in his crimes.

"Don't bother hiding it, Chloe," I said gently, stepping up to perform the final cabin safety check. "The forensic audit includes every receipt. That necklace will be entered into evidence by the federal prosecutor's office by noon."

Chloe looked up at me, her eyes filled with tears. "I didn't know... he told me he was divorced! He told me he owned the company outright!"

"You knew he was using corporate money," I replied, my voice steady and without malice. "You signed three separate travel expense forms under fake consultation codes. That makes you an accessory to financial fraud. I suggest you hire a very good lawyer the second you step off this aircraft."

The tires hit the tarmac at Madrid–Barajas with a soft thrum, the powerful thrust reversers deploying, slowing the massive jet down as it turned off the main runway onto the taxiway.

I took my jumpseat near the forward exit door, buckling my four-point harness tightly across my chest.

Through the window, I watched our aircraft approach Gate E-12. Standing on the tarmac directly below the jet bridge were three black armored sedans and two local police vehicles, their blue lights flashing silently against the bright Spanish morning sun.

Four uniformed officers of the Guardia Civil stood beside two sharp-dressed men in dark suits holding leather portfolios—the Interpol economic crimes task force.

I looked down at my Purser wings, smoothed my uniform skirt, and took a deep, refreshing breath.