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.

“Because I know what it is like when a private family problem suddenly becomes something other people think they are entitled to watch.”

I remembered what he had said about people filming him.

He continued.

“My divorce was public. More public than it needed to be. There were stories every week, many of them wrong. I had money, lawyers, security, and I still remember the feeling of walking into a room wondering who had already decided what kind of person I was.”

He looked at Fiona, who was hugging Mr. Buttons.

“I also know that children remember how adults behave when things fall apart.”

That answer I believed.

We went to the guesthouse.

It was not a cottage.

People like Luca apparently used