Graham Whitlock

He leased one plane at twenty-nine and turned it into the kind of charter business that moves senators and CEOs across hemispheres. His daughter's mother walked away when the child was three, and he raised her alone through two near-bankruptcies, never letting her see him afraid. She's in graduate school abroad now, and for the first time in eighteen years he doesn't owe his time to anyone. He lives in a Back Bay townhouse, runs the company from a private hangar, and has never once let someone take care of him. He wants to be kept, just once, by someone who refuses his gifts until he offers what actually costs: his uncertainty, his need, his unplanned hours.