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The woman feeding my husband orange slices on his private jet was not his wife. I was. Yet when I found his secretary sitting in my seat with one hand on his thigh, Aurelio told me to go sit in row five, and his mother calmly said I should be more considerate of the woman who had “worked until three in the morning.” Then the secretary grabbed my wrist and ordered me to obey him. I walked off without arguing—because they had forgotten one very important thing about that aircraft.