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.

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.