“There,” Julian said, pointing toward the premium check-in desks.

Adrian was arguing with a woman in a navy blazer.

His hair was damp, stuck to his forehead in dark strands.

His coat was unbuttoned, revealing his wrinkled shirt.

“Sir, without a boarding pass, I cannot let you past this point,” the agent said.

“My wife has my company’s intellectual property in her carry-on,” Adrian shouted, his voice cracking.

“She is fleeing the country.”

Several passengers in line stepped back, staring at him.

“I need to speak to duty manager Miller,” Adrian insisted, his hands gripping the edge of the counter.

“He knows me.”

“Mr. Miller is not on duty tonight, sir,” the agent replied, her voice tightening.

I walked up behind him, the sound of my heels sharp on the polished tile.

“Adrian,” I said.

He spun around, his eyes bloodshot and wide with panic.

“Claire,” he gasped, reaching out to grab my shoulder.

I stepped back, out of his reach.

“Where is she?” Adrian asked.

“They won’t let me through.”

“She’s already checked in,” I said, showing him my phone screen.

“Seat 2B.”