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.

confession.

Fiona was asleep upstairs.

I had been telling him that I was looking for an apartment because the case was almost finished and I wanted a place that felt like mine.

He nodded.

“That makes sense.”

I had expected him to argue.

He didn’t.

Then he said, “I’m going to miss having you nearby.”

I looked at him.

“I’ll probably miss you too.”

“Probably?”

“Don’t get arrogant.”

He smiled.

And then he kissed me.

Slowly.

Like he was asking.

I kissed him back.

Six months after the flight, Fiona and I moved into a small house of our own about twenty minutes from Luca’s property.

I could have stayed in his guesthouse.

I could have moved into the main house.

I chose neither.

I wanted keys that were mine.

Bills that came in my name.

 

 

A front door nobody could change without me knowing.

The house was