It’s his fault that I got so little sleep, and I feel no guilt about sliding down the bed even as I pull the covers higher. I know we are on a schedule. But I also know that the plane won’t take off without Damien. What’s the benefit of being an ultra-rich lord of the universe who owns a fleet of planes if you can’t adjust departure times in order to let your wife grab a few extra minutes of sleep? I want to explain that, but all I manage is a murmured, “Fifteen minutes. Sleepy.” I hear the soft pad of his footsteps as he moves away from the bed, and I slide back into sleep, secure in the belief that I’ve succeeded in begging more time. Soon enough, I realize I’m wrong. He’s back, and he’s gently tugging the covers down. I peel open my eyes, and this time I pay more attention to my surroundings. My husband is already dressed in jeans and a crisp button-down. Behind him, I see his running shorts and a T-shirt on the floor near a half-packed suitcase.
