Rich Husband
Zachary kicked his wife out after a blazing row over her affair. Of course, he made sure she was taken care of—financially, at least. But he refused to speak to her ever again, no matter what.
“You’re the one to blame! Zach, darling, please forgive me!” Julia babbled uselessly.
“Have you lost your mind? At your age!” he roared. “Humiliating me like this?! Be grateful I’m just walking away!”
Julia was forty-six at the time—same as him. But thanks to his money, she could pass for thirty, and that annoyed Zachary even more. Who’d want a middle-aged woman if she hadn’t been polished to perfection by cash?
Life went on.
“Zach, hey! Not even a hello?” It was an old neighbour from way back—Danny, if he remembered right.
Zach clenched his jaw. Why was this his punishment? He’d left this place years ago, yet people still recognised him. Still called him by his first name. And of all people, it had to be the local drunk. One of many.
The driver’s window rolled down, and Steven murmured, “Need any help, Mr. Hartwood?”
Zach waved him off. He strode toward the building without a glance at the old neighbour. More than a neighbour once, really… a friend? Maybe. A lifetime ago.
“Still single after the divorce, then? Playing the bachelor?” Danny wasn’t letting up.
Or was his name Danny? Did it matter? Zach had spent half his life trying to forget. Back then, they’d been young lads—him, Danny, and the rest of the no-hopers—drinking cheap wine and messing about. Thirty-five years ago. And now he was supposed to greet washed-up drunks just because his mum still lived here?
“Mum!” he called, pushing open the flat door.
“Zachy!” she cried back, delighted.
Why wouldn’t she just move in with him? To his sprawling estate in the countryside? But no, she clung to this old flat like it was the last lifeboat on the Titanic.
“How’ve you been, Mum?”
She was still spry at seventy-eight. Walking ten miles a day with her sticks. Ordering groceries on her phone like a pro. Loved her fancy telly—his gift—and ranting about how “modern art is rubbish.” Twice a year, she jetted off to Europe or somewhere warm. A proper modern gran—Zach was proud of her. Happy to help. But this flat? He’d never understand.
Every visit circled back to the same argument. He couldn’t help himself—it was a sore spot.
“Mum, have you changed your mind?”
“About what?” Margaret Hartwood blinked innocently.
She was good at playing dumb when it suited her. Zach loved his mother… dreaded the day he’d lose her. Didn’t even want to think about it.
“You know what! Move in with me! So I don’t have to keep trekking over here!”
“You don’t *have* to! I’m not forcing you. We could meet in town if you want.”
How could she say that so casually? *Not have to?* She was his *mother.*
“I *can’t* not come. I need to see you’re alright. At home… in general.”
“And what’s *in general* supposed to mean? My sanity?” she quipped.
Zach smirked despite himself.
“Honestly, Mum. Could you *not* gossip about my love life with the neighbourhood hens?”
“Do I?” She raised her brows.
“You must. The local drunks are asking if I’m married yet.”
“Well, maybe you *should* remarry!” she sighed. “Then you’d stop fussing over me.”
“So that’s how it is? Me checking on you is *fussing* now?”
“You don’t just *check.* Feels like you’re waiting for me to crumble so you can drag me off to your fancy estate!”
“Mum!” Zach was genuinely hurt.
She stomped her foot. “Yes! *Drag* me! You’ll never understand—I just want to live out my days *here.* Where I grew up! Where I raised *you,* you ungrateful boy!”
Zach actually stepped back. What had gotten into her?
“I’ll come another time,” he muttered, heading for the door.
“Next time, come without the lecture! I’m *not* moving to your posh little enclave!” she shouted after him.
His home was in a village just outside the Cotswolds, but his mother lumped it all together in her mind—nouveau riche, upstarts, the lot. She’d been a professor, head of department, teaching literature. Buried her husband young, at fifty-two. Zach wouldn’t have minded if she remarried, but Margaret had declared:
“After Edward, that part of life doesn’t interest me. So much else to enjoy! Why must everyone obsess over marriage?”
At the time, Zach was happily married to Julia. He’d pitied his mum a little, but fair enough. Her choice. He’d been climbing the ladder, building his fortune. Raising his son, Peter. Who turned out rotten—went off to study in America and never came back. So after the divorce eight years ago, Zach was well and truly alone. And mostly fine with it… except when it hit him: was he turning into his mother?
She wouldn’t leave her flat. He couldn’t bring himself to say hello to Danny. What was the big deal? They’d been mates once. Or something like it.
“Let’s go, Steven,” Zach grunted, sliding into the car.
Before he did, he glanced around the quiet courtyard—empty. This place, a stone’s throw from Hyde Park, had seemed decent once. When had he gotten so snobbish?
“Home, sir?” Steven asked.
“Actually, no. The office. Left some paperwork.”
He needed to review the Compass deal. Buy or pass? Three hundred million—was it worth it? His manager had it covered, but Zach liked to double-check. Stay in control. Or… was his mother right?
In the rearview mirror, Steven’s gaze held sympathy.
“What?” Zach snapped.
“You work too much, sir. If I had your money? Not a *second* more. Cigar, glass of whisky, poolside in the Maldives—good luck dragging me back!”
Zach laughed. Steven was good company. Young, unafraid to speak his mind. No airs. And for the salary Zach paid, the lad never complained—always there when needed. When *was* his last holiday? Maybe Zach *should* jet off.
“Tired of me already, Steve?”
“Not at all, sir.”
“Take a holiday if you want. Don’t want to run you ragged.”
“Plenty of time to rest in the grave,” Steven said philosophically.
“Fine. Forget the office. Have Strickland email the files. Let’s go home.”
On the way back, Zach debated calling someone for the evening. Plenty of women were happy to spend time with Zachary Hartwood. Young, beautiful, smart-ish. Some even read books. Gifting them things was fun. What *wasn’t* fun? The hope in their eyes—would this old fool marry them? Of course he wouldn’t.
Instead, he opened a bottle from his cellar—Château Mouton Rothschild 2004. Too good to waste on loneliness. Wine, a book… perfect evening for a lonely billionaire. No need for company.
He didn’t even check the Compass files. Next day.
The evening passed as planned. Yet his thoughts kept drifting to his mother. What did she lack? His estate had gardens, paths, staff to cook and clean. Deliveries? Easy. But no—she refused.
Then it hit him so hard he spilled wine on his trousers.
He was *lonely.* He *missed his mum.* At fifty-four! Pathetic.
He’d failed his family. Worked nonstop, provided everything… except time. Julia had an affair out of boredom. His housekeeper, Marion, had exposed it—no ulterior motive, just decency.
Julia was gone in a blaze of fury. Well provided for, but never to return.
“You’re to blame! Zach, *please*!” she’d wailed.
“You stupid old—” he’d screamed. “Tarnishing my name?! Be glad I didn’t throttle you!”
Julia had looked thirty, but she was forty-six. And that stung—who’d want her without his money?
Her affair partner? Some neighbour. Zach never met the man. Didn’t care if Julia married him afterward. Eight years since the divorce… felt like yesterday.
After the argument, Zach avoided his mother. The realisation that he—a grown man—*needed* her was humiliating. If she wanted to stay in smoggy London, fine!
But after six weeks of silence, he cracked. Called her. Her voice sounded… weak.
“Mum, are you ill?”
“Don’t be silly, dear! I’m fineThe last thing Zach expected was to find love again with Natalie—Danny’s sister, his childhood crush—but as they danced at their wedding, his mother laughing in the corner, he realized happiness had been waiting for him in the past all along.
