The blonde woman's face turned crimson.
“You arrogant son of a—”
“Ma'am,” Lena interrupted firmly, “please stop.”
The woman pointed toward Evan.
“I want him removed from this aircraft!”
Evan adjusted his grip on the briefcase.
“Then you'll need to explain why you're demanding the removal of a passenger with a valid ticket.”
“I don't have to explain anything to you!”
She turned toward the older businessman seated behind her.
“Can you believe this?”
The man hesitated.
He was in his sixties, with silver hair and rectangular glasses.
Finally, he said, “The boarding pass does say 2A.”
The blonde woman stared at him.
“Stay out of it.”
The man lowered his glasses.
“You asked.”
The passengers behind him grew even quieter.
The blonde woman's hand tightened around her clutch.
She looked toward Evan's face.
Something about his calmness seemed to bother her more than anger would have.
He wasn't begging.
He wasn't apologizing.
He wasn't trying to convince her that he belonged.
He was waiting.
As though he knew the situation would eventually resolve itself without his having to raise his voice.
The woman hated that.
“Do you have any idea who you're speaking to?”
Evan considered the question.
Then answered.
“Not until you tell me.”
Her mouth fell open.
“I'm Darla Whitmore.”
She paused, expecting immediate recognition.
Evan didn't react.
Her expression tightened.
“President of Whitmore & Vale.”
He nodded slowly.
“I see.”
Darla leaned back.
“So perhaps now you understand why I don't appreciate being challenged over something as trivial as a seat.”
Evan looked at her.
He knew the name.
In fact, he'd spent much of the previous seventy-two hours reading documents containing it.
He knew the company's financial condition.
He knew the size of its debts.
He knew the names of its major shareholders, the identity of its lenders, the details of its pending restructuring, and the provisions of an agreement that had been finalized the previous evening.
He knew who Darla Whitmore was.
He simply hadn't expected to meet her like this.
For a moment, he considered saying nothing.
The flight attendant could enforce the seating assignment.
The woman could move.
And he could spend the rest of his flight reviewing the documents that mattered.
But Darla was still speaking.
“You probably know the brand. Our boutiques are in New York, Los Angeles, Paris, London. We dress celebrities. We work with people who actually matter.”