The A-6 highway from Madrid's Barajas Airport was a river of taillights leading into the heart of the Spanish capital. In the back of the sleek black Audi arranged by the club, Arianna Flowers-Wilson watched the city unfold, a silent movie of grand, sand-colored architecture and bustling plazas. Kaleb, exhausted from the transatlantic flight, was asleep in his car seat, his head lolling to the side. Arianna's mind was a whirlwind of logistical details—jet lag schedules, unpacking, finding a grocery store, the phone call she needed to make to her most important client to explain the six-hour time difference.
She was in manager mode. Survival mode. The adventure, the romance of it all, was buried under a mountain of practical anxiety.
