His Hidden Wife: The Purser's Secret

"Just one person ahead of you," the lounge attendant said with a practiced smile.

Nora Vance returned the smile, her own just as practiced. "Thank you."

She stood in the polished corridor outside the first-class lounge restrooms at JFK, the low hum of the airport a familiar soundtrack to her life. As the purser for Sinclair Global Air's flagship international route, pre-flight routines were etched into her bones. Check the manifest, brief the crew, ensure the cabin is perfect, find a quiet moment to breathe.

A muffled sound from behind the closed restroom door made her frown. It was a woman's voice, low and strained, followed by the deep murmur of a man. Nora's stomach gave a slight, unpleasant twist. She'd seen enough in her years of flying to recognize the sound of a mile-high club initiation happening firmly on the ground.

The lock clicked. The door swung open.

Socialite Mila Bloom stumbled out, her silk blouse misbuttoned and her cheeks flushed a guilty red. Her eyes widened for a fraction of a second when she saw Nora's crisp uniform, a flicker of panic before she composed herself into a mask of haughty indifference.

Before Nora could look away, a man emerged from the same stall.

He was tall, dressed in a bespoke suit that probably cost more than her car, and he moved with an easy authority that commanded space. He paused, his back to her, to adjust the cufflink on his right wrist-a small, precise movement of control.

Then he turned.

The air punched out of Nora's lungs. Julian Sinclair. Her husband.

His gaze, the color of a stormy sea, swept the corridor and landed on her. For a heartbeat, there was nothing but the silent, roaring space between them. Five years of a marriage that existed only on paper, a contract signed in a lawyer's office and renewed with a monthly wire transfer. Five years of seeing him only on the cover of business magazines or in paparazzi shots.

Now he was here. And he had seen her.

Instinct took over. Nora spun on her heel, intending to melt back into the flow of passengers, to become just another face in the crowd, another anonymous employee.

"Stop."

The word was quiet, not a shout, but it sliced through the airport noise and hit her squarely between the shoulder blades. It was a command, absolute and unquestionable.

Nora froze. She took a half-step back, her body acting on its own, and bumped hard against an abandoned luggage cart. The clatter of metal was loud in the sudden, tense silence.

An arm shot out, long and sleeved in dark wool. Strong fingers wrapped around her wrist, the grip like a steel manacle. Julian pulled her forward, closing the distance between them until she was standing directly in front of him, so close she could smell the faint, clean scent of his cologne mixed with something else-Mila Bloom's cloying perfume.

He ignored the shocked, pale face of the woman he'd just been with. He ignored the curious glances from other passengers. His focus was entirely on Nora.

His voice was a low, dangerous murmur, meant for her but loud enough for Mila to hear every single word.

"My wife. Running away the moment you see your husband?"

The world tilted. Nora's mind went completely blank. The first rule of their agreement, the one unspoken, unbreakable rule-anonymity-had just been shattered into a million pieces on the floor of the JFK terminal.

Mila Bloom's gasp was sharp. Her face drained of all color, shifting from flushed crimson to a sickly white. She stared from Julian's unforgiving face to Nora's, disbelief warring with fury in her eyes.

Julian didn't even grant her a parting glance. "You can go," he said, his tone flat and dismissive.

Mila shot Nora a look of pure venom, a promise of future retribution, before turning and stalking away on sharp, clicking heels.

The eyes of the surrounding passengers and a few of her own crew members felt like physical blows. Nora felt pinned, exposed on a stage she never wanted.

Julian paid them no mind. He leaned in closer, his breath warm against her ear. "What's the matter? Don't you like the surprise?"

Nora took a shaky breath, forcing the tidal wave of panic down. She lifted her chin, her voice coming out colder and steadier than she felt. "Mr. Sinclair, our agreement doesn't include public performances."

At the formal address, his eyes darkened. The pressure on her wrist increased, a painful reminder of who held all the power.