**The Wealthy Man**
Edward Harrington threw his wife out after discovering her infidelity—dramatically, decisively. He ensured she was financially secure, but that was it. Never again would he speak to her, under any circumstances.
*”You’re the one to blame! Teddy, please forgive me!”* Julia pleaded, her words clumsy, desperate.
*”Have you lost your mind at your age?”* he roared. *”Humiliating me like this?! Be grateful I’m only leaving you!”*
Julia was forty-six at the time, just like him. Thanks to his money, she looked no older than thirty—a fact that irked Edward all the more. Who would want a middle-aged woman without his fortune propping her up?
**All the Stories of Life**
*”Teddy, hello! No greeting?”* called an old neighbor from decades past—David, if memory served.
Edward clenched his jaw. What torment! Years had passed since he’d lived in this building. Yet here they were, still recognizing him, still using his name. And of all people, it had to be the local drunk. One of many.
The car window rolled down, and his driver, James, asked quietly, *”Need help, Mr. Harrington?”*
Edward dismissed him with a wave. He strode quickly toward the entrance, ignoring his former neighbor—more than just a neighbor, really. A friend? Once, perhaps. A lifetime ago.
*”You never remarried after the divorce, did you? Still a bachelor?”* David pressed.
Or was his name even David? What did it matter? Edward had spent half his life trying to forget. Once, he and this David—like all the other losers—had been young men. They had drunk cheap wine together, laughed in the same crowds. When? Thirty-five years ago? And now he was expected to acknowledge washed-up alcoholics just because his mother still lived here?
*”Hello, Mum!”* he called loudly, pushing open the apartment door.
*”Teddy!”* she cried back, delighted.
Why wouldn’t she move in with him, into his sprawling estate? No, she clung to this old flat with a grip he couldn’t loosen.
*”How are you, Mum?”*
At seventy-eight, his mother was spry. She walked fifteen thousand steps a day with her hiking poles, ordered groceries effortlessly through an app, and enjoyed modern films on the high-end home theater system he’d gifted her—though she never missed a chance to lament *”the decline of art.”* Twice a year, she traveled—somewhere warm or to Europe. A thoroughly modern old lady. Edward was proud of her, happy to support her. But this attachment to her apartment? He couldn’t understand it. And every visit, without fail, the conversation turned unpleasant. He steered it there himself, powerless to resist.
*”Mum, have you reconsidered?”*
*”Reconsidered what?”* his mother, Margaret, asked innocently.
She was an expert at playing oblivious when it suited her. Edward loved her—he’d miss her terribly when she… No, he refused to even think it.
*”You know what I mean! Move in with me! So I don’t have to keep making this trip!”*
*”Then don’t! I’m not forcing you. If you want to see me, we can meet in the city.”*
How could she say it so casually? *Don’t come?* She was his mother—his only family.
*”I can’t just *not* come! I need to make sure you’re all right. At home, and… everything.”*
*”And ‘everything’ means what? My sanity?”* she asked sweetly.
Edward couldn’t help but smile.
*”Mum, must you discuss my personal life with your gossiping friends?”*
*”Do I?”* She raised her brows.
*”You must, if the local drunks are asking if I’ve remarried!”*
*”Maybe you *should* remarry,”* she sighed. *”Then you’d have less time to fuss over me.”*
*”Is that what this looks like? My visiting you is just *fussing*?”*
*”You don’t *just* visit! Sometimes I think you’re waiting for me to become frail so you can drag me off to your country estate!”*
*”Mum!”* Edward was genuinely wounded.
She stood, stamping her foot. *”Yes! By force! You’ll never understand—I want to live out my days in my own home! The one where I raised you, you ungrateful boy!”*
Edward actually stepped back. What had gotten into her?
*”I’ll… come another time,”* he muttered, retreating toward the door.
*”Next time, leave the guilt trips behind! I’m not moving to your mansion with all your nouveau riche friends!”* she shouted after him.
Edward lived in an exclusive village just outside London, but his mother didn’t bother with details. To her, it was all the same—new money, social climbers, the lot.
Margaret had spent her career as a university professor, teaching literature. She’d been widowed young, at fifty-two. Bright and full of life even then, Edward wouldn’t have minded if she remarried. But she’d declared:
*”After your father, I’ve no interest in that chapter. There’s too much else to enjoy in life! Must everyone be obsessed with marriage?”*
At the time, Edward had been happily married to Julia. He’d felt a pang of sadness for his mother, but so be it. Her choice. Back then, he’d been climbing, building his fortune, raising his son, Peter.
Then Peter grew up rotten—left for university in America and never returned.
After the divorce from Julia eight years ago, Edward found himself entirely alone.
And usually, that suited him.
Except when the thought gnawed at him: *Was he repeating his mother’s fate?*
She refused to leave her flat. He’d grown so far removed from ordinary life that acknowledging an old friend like David felt beneath him.
Why?
They’d once been close. Or something like it.
*”Let’s go, James,”* Edward muttered, sinking into the car.
Before getting in, he scanned the quiet courtyard—empty, thank God. Once, living steps from Hyde Park had felt like luxury. When had he become such a snob?
*”Home, sir?”*
*”No, the office. Some paperwork left.”*
He needed to review the acquisition files for Compass. Three hundred million pounds—was it worth it? His executives had already vetted the deal, but Edward liked to double-check. Stay in control.
Then again… maybe his mother had a point.
Catching James’s sympathetic glance in the rearview mirror, Edward scowled.
*”What now?”*
*”You work too much, sir. If I had your money, I’d never lift a finger again. Sit by the pool with a cigar and a whisky, somewhere tropical. Let the world pass me by!”*
Edward laughed. James amused him—young, unfiltered, excellent at his job. Never late, never sick, always sharp.
Had the man even taken a holiday?
*”You tired, James?”*
*”Not at all, sir.”*
*”Take a break if you need one.”*
*”I’ll rest when I’m dead!”* James quipped.
*”Fine. To hell with the office. Tell Strickland to email the files. Take me home.”*
On the drive back, Edward considered inviting a woman over. There were plenty willing—young, beautiful, educated. Some even interesting.
But their eyes always held the same hope: *Will this aging fool marry me?*
No, thank you.
He’d open a bottle from his cellar instead. A Château Lafite Rothschild, perhaps—no, too precious. The 2004, then.
A quiet evening with a book. Perfect for a lonely billionaire.
No need for company.
Except his mind kept circling back to his mother. What *was* her problem? His estate had sprawling gardens, staff, every comfort.
Then it struck him—so hard he spilled his wine.
He was *lonely.*
At fifty-four, he *missed his mother.*
Pathetic.
He’d failed his family. Worked relentlessly while Julia grew bored, strayed. Peter fled abroad.
When he discovered the affair, he’d thrown Julia out—spectacularly. Ensured she was comfortable, but cut all ties.
*”It’s *your* fault! Teddy, forgive me!”* she’d begged.
*”You’ve lost your mind!”* he’d roared. *”Humiliating me like this?! Be glad I didn’t strangle you!”*
Julia had been forty-six, surgically preserved at thirty.
That stung most—who’d want her without his money?
His cook, Martha, had exposed the affair. No ulterior motive—just decency.
Edward hadn’t bothered learning the lover’s name. Some neighbor. He’d half-expected Julia to marry the man, but he neverAnd as he sat alone that evening, the weight of his choices pressing down, Edward finally understood—true wealth wasn’t measured in millions, but in the love he’d pushed away.
