Rich Husband
Zachary threw his wife out after her affair, loud and clear. Made sure she was taken care of, though—couldn’t stand the sight of her after that. No way was he ever speaking to her again!
“You brought this on yourself! Zachy, please forgive me!” Julie babbled, words spilling out awkwardly.
“Lost your mind at your age!” he shouted. “Humiliating me like this? Be grateful I’m just walking away!”
Julie was forty-six then, same as him. With his money, she barely looked thirty—another insult. Who’d want a middle-aged woman without all that cash poured into her?
Every story about life
“Zachy! Not even a hello?” A voice called out—Danny, he thought, some old neighbour from a lifetime ago.
Zachary gritted his teeth. Bloody hell. Years since he’d left this place, and still, they recognised him. Still calling him by that stupid nickname. And of all people—some washed-up local drunk. One of many.
The car window rolled down, and Steven, his driver, asked quietly, “Need help, Mr. Zachary?”
He just waved him off, striding towards the building without so much as a glance at the old neighbour. More than a neighbour once—friends? Maybe. Feels like a lifetime ago.
“Never remarried after the divorce, eh? Still playing the bachelor?” Danny called after him.
Or was his name Danny? Who cared? Zach had spent half his life trying to forget these people. Back then, he and Danny and the other losers were just young lads knocking about together, drinking the cheapest wine imaginable. Thirty-five years ago? And now he’s expected to chat with some down-and-out drunk just because his mother—
“Hi, Mum!” he called loudly, pushing open the flat door.
“Zachy!” she cheered in reply.
Why wouldn’t she just move in with him? His huge house had plenty of space. But no—she clung to this old flat like her life depended on it.
“How’ve you been, Mum?”
At seventy-eight, she was still sharp. Walked fifteen thousand steps a day with her sticks, ordered groceries online like a pro, loved watching films on the fancy setup he’d bought her—though she’d still grumble about “modern art going to pot.” Took holidays twice a year, either somewhere sunny or Europe. A proper modern gran—Zach was proud of her. Loved helping her. But this flat? He couldn’t wrap his head around it. And every time, the conversation veered there, no matter how hard he tried to avoid it. He always steered it back himself, too—couldn’t help it. A sore spot.
“Mum, you still not reconsidered?”
“Reconsidered what?” His mother, Grace, blinked innocently.
God, she was good at playing dumb when she wanted. Zach loved her—couldn’t bear the thought of losing her one day. Didn’t even want to think about it.
“Same as always! Move in with me. Save me the trips over here.”
“No one’s making you come! We could meet in town if you fancy a visit.”
How could she say that so casually? Not come? She was his mother—the most important person in his life.
“I can’t just stop coming!” he snapped. “I need to know you’re alright. At home, and… y’know.”
“And ‘y’know’ means what? My marbles?” she asked sweetly.
Zach couldn’t help a smirk.
“Mum, please tell me you’re not gossiping about my love life with your little friends?”
“Am I?” She raised an eyebrow.
“Must be, if the local drunks are asking if I’ve remarried.”
“Maybe you should!” she sighed. “Then you wouldn’t fuss over me so much.”
“So that’s how it looks?” he frowned. “Me visiting you—that’s ‘fussing’ now?”
“You don’t just visit! Feels like you’re waiting for me to turn frail so you can drag me off to your posh country estate!”
“Mum!” Zach was genuinely offended.
She stood up, stamping her foot. “Yes! Drag me! You’ll never understand—I just want to live out my days in peace, in my own home! The one I grew up in! The one I raised you in, you ungrateful boy!”
Zach actually stepped back. Where’d that come from?
“I’ll… come another time,” he muttered, heading for the door.
“Hope one day you visit without this nonsense! I’m not moving to some nouveau riche palace!” she yelled after him.
Zach lived in a village just outside London, but his mother couldn’t care less about specifics. To her, it was all the same—flashy new money, upstarts, the lot. She’d spent her career as a university professor, teaching literature. Head of department. Widowed young at fifty-two—his dad gone too soon. She’d been fit then, and Zach wouldn’t have minded if she’d remarried. But Grace had declared:
“After your father, that part of life doesn’t interest me. So many better things in the world to do!”
At the time, Zach was happily married to Julie. Felt a bit bad for his mum, but fine—her choice. He’d been climbing the ladder back then, building his fortune, raising their son, Peter. Little git grew up and bolted to America for uni—never came back. And after the divorce eight years ago, Zach ended up alone. Mostly fine with it, except… sometimes he wondered. Was he just repeating his mother’s life? Maybe they were more alike than he wanted. She refused to move to his place, and he’d grown so far removed from normal folk that saying hello to Danny felt beneath him. But why? They’d been mates once, hadn’t they?
“Let’s go, Steven,” Zach grumbled, sliding into the car.
Before getting in, he glanced around the quiet courtyard—empty. This place near central London had once felt like a dream. When did he get so full of himself?
“Home?” Steven asked.
“Nah, office. Got some paperwork to check.”
Had to go over the Compass deal. Worth buying? Three hundred million wasn’t pocket change. His manager had already vetted it, but Zach liked to double-check. Stay in control. Or—was his mum right?
Catching Steven’s glance in the rearview, Zach frowned. “What?”
“Just… you work too much, Mr. Zachary. If I had your money, I’d retire tomorrow! Cigar, cocktail, poolside somewhere tropical—no one’d drag me back!”
Zach chuckled. Steven was good company—young, blunt, no filter. Worth every penny of his salary, too. Never late, never sick, never complained about overtime. Always there when needed. Come to think of it—when was the lad’s last holiday? Maybe a tropical getaway wasn’t a bad idea.
“Tired, Steven?”
“Nah, all good.”
“Take some time off if you want. Not running you ragged?”
“Plenty of time to rest when I’m dead!” Steven grinned.
“Alright, screw the office. Tell Strickland to email the files. Let’s go home.”
On the way back, Zach considered inviting some young lady over. Plenty of those—pretty, slim, some even clever. Uni types. Fine company, sure. Enjoyed spoiling them. But the look in their eyes? Always the same—hoping this old fool would marry them. As if he’d drop dead tomorrow and leave them everything.
Nah. Better to crack open a bottle from his cellar—Château Mouton Rothschild, maybe the ’04. Read a book. Perfect evening for a lonely billionaire.
Didn’t even check the Compass files. Spent the night as planned, wine in hand, but his mind kept drifting to his mum. What, his massive garden wasn’t good enough for her walks? Delivery not available? He had staff for that—Marina, his cook, only bought the freshest ingredients. Meals to die for.
And then it hit him—so hard he spilled his wine. He was lonely. Needed his mum. At fifty-bloody-four! Christ.
Couldn’t keep his family together. Worked non-stop, piled money into the house, but Julie? No time. Peter buggered off to the States. Then Julie had an affair—some neighbour five houses down. Marina, the cook, had tipped him off. No ulterior motive, just decent people not standing for that nonsense.
Threw Julie out, of course. Made sure she was comfortable, but never spoke to her again.
“You brought this on yourself!” she’d wailed. “Zachy, forgive me!”
“Old b—” he’d roared. “Lost your mind, embarrassing me like this? Be glad I’m not throttling you!”
Julie was forty-six, looked thirty with his money. Who’d want her without it? And yeah, she’d hated being called old more than the other word—but Zach didn’t care. She cheated? Gone. Fair’sAfter two years of quiet happiness, Zachary finally understood—it wasn’t about the money, the house, or even pride, but simply about finding someone who remembered the boy he used to be and loved the man he’d become.
