A stranger beside me on a flight asked, “Could you pretend you fell asleep on my shoulder?” I almost said no. I had just left Chicago with my five-year-old daughter, two suitcases, and a marriage that had fallen apart three days earlier. But I agreed. Two hours later, I woke up still leaning against him—and discovered the quiet man beside me was one of the country’s best-known billionaires. Then my phone reconnected, and a message from my ex-husband appeared: I KNOW YOU TOOK FIONA TO NEW YORK.

“Ms. Vance.”

“What exactly is happening out there?” I asked.

“Your husband has been trying to determine whether you’re on this flight. Airport personnel have not given him passenger information. His investigators appear to be waiting in the public arrivals area.”

“Can he stop me from leaving?”

“I’m security, not your lawyer,” Marcus said. “We have counsel on the phone who can answer that. From a security standpoint, we can escort you through a private exit if you want to avoid a confrontation.”

That distinction calmed me more than a promise would have.

Nobody was pretending this could all be solved by rich people snapping their fingers.

There were rules.

There were courts.

There were decisions I would have to make.

I looked at Luca.

“If I go with you, am I hiding from him?”

“No,” he said. “You’re leaving an airport without having an argument in front of your daughter.”

That was enough.

“All right.”

We were escorted down a service corridor and through a side exit used for private ground transportation.

Outside, three black SUVs waited.

I felt ridiculous climbing into one with a stroller.