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.

The first time he kissed me, we were standing beside the kitchen sink.

No photographers.

No champagne.

No dramatic 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 not grand.

It had three bedrooms, slightly uneven hardwood floors, an old maple in the backyard, and a kitchen drawer that refused to close unless you lifted it first.