The Boston–Zurich overnight flight had barely taken off when the first-class cabin erupted in cries. Baby Nora Whitman—seven months old, exhausted, overstimulated—screamed like she was trying to shatter glass. Passengers squirmed in their leather seats. A few smiled politely. Most didn’t bother.
At the center of the chaos was her father, Henry Whitman. Billionaire, market shark, a man who could silence boardrooms with a raised eyebrow. Yet here he was, sleeves rolled up, jacket abandoned, pacing the aisle with a screaming infant who didn’t care about net worth or status. The nanny had tried. He had tried. Walking, bouncing, whispering, pleading—nothing worked. Nora’s fists shook, her face red, her wails cutting through the cabin. Annoyed sighs, muttered complaints, and a few phone-recording influencers completed the audience.
Henry had never felt this powerless—not during hostile takeovers, not during economic crashes. This was his daughter. And he couldn’t fix it.
Across the aisle, eight-year-old Liam Carter watched quietly. Brown curls, sticker-covered backpack, traveling with his exhausted ER nurse mother. He observed Henry, Nora, and the tense passengers, processing more than most adults ever would.
“Mom?” Liam whispered. “The baby’s really sad.”
“I know, honey,” she replied, rubbing her eyes. “Try to rest.”
Continue reading on next page…