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.

He learned not to try to solve a problem unless I asked him to.

I learned that his public confidence disappeared whenever Fiona asked him to draw something because he was terrible at drawing.

He had money most people could hardly imagine.

Yet the things that made me trust him were almost embarrassingly ordinary.

He knocked before entering the guesthouse.

He returned things where he found them.

He never read over my shoulder.

When he disagreed with me, he said so without punishing me for disagreeing back.

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.