The crying seemed endless.
Little Nora’s cries echoed through the luxurious cabin of the flight from Boston to Zurich. First-class passengers shifted uncomfortably in their leather seats, exchanging annoyed glances and stifled sighs.
Henry Whitman, billionaire and king of the boardroom, felt utterly powerless.
Accustomed to being in control and moving fortunes with swift decisions, he now couldn’t comfort the tiny baby in his arms. His suit was wrinkled, his hair disheveled, sweat beaded on his forehead. For the first time in years, he felt vulnerable.
vulnerable.
“Sir, perhaps she’s just tired,” a flight attendant whispered gently.
He nodded, though panic was growing inside him.
His wife had died weeks after Nora’s birth, leaving him alone with a newborn and an empire to maintain. That night, the walls of control he had built began to crumble.
Then, from the economy aisle, a voice called out:
“Excuse me, sir… I think I can help.”
