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.

to give you control of our daughter after you locked us out of the house.”

“I never locked Fiona out.”

“She was standing beside me.”

“You could have called.”

“I did.”

His mouth tightened.

“I was angry.”

“So was I.”

“That’s not the same.”

That sentence told me more than anything else he said that day.

His anger had always counted.

Mine had always been evidence that I was unreasonable.

He leaned back.

“Blaire, what do you actually want?”

I had asked myself that question for months.

At first, I wanted him to apologize.

Then I wanted him exposed.

Then, for a while, I wanted him to feel exactly as powerless as he had made me feel.

But sitting across from him, I understood how exhausting it would be to build the rest of my life around whether David suffered enough.

“I want Fiona stable,” I said. “I want what