The Wealthy Husband
Edward Harrington kicked his wife out after discovering her affair—though not before ensuring she was financially secure. He wanted nothing more to do with her, under any circumstances!
“You’re the one to blame! Teddy, please forgive me!” Margaret pleaded, her words falling on deaf ears.
“Have you lost your mind at your age?” he shouted. “Humiliating me like this? Be grateful I’m just throwing you out!”
Margaret was forty-six, same as him. Thanks to his money, she looked no older than thirty—which only fuelled Edward’s bitterness. What man would want a forty-six-year-old woman if she hadn’t been polished by wealth?
All the Tales of Life
“Teddy, hello! Too good to say hello now?” called a voice from his distant past—an old neighbour, David, if he remembered correctly.
Edward Harrington gritted his teeth. What kind of punishment was this? He’d left this neighbourhood years ago, yet somehow, people still recognised him. And of all people, it had to be the local drunk—one of many back then.
The car window rolled down, and his driver, James, asked quietly, “Need anything, sir?”
Edward waved him off. He marched toward the building without so much as a glance at his former neighbour—no, more than a neighbour, really. A childhood friend? Maybe. How long had it been?
“You never remarried after the divorce, eh? Still playing the bachelor?” David persisted.
Or was his name something else? It didn’t matter. Edward had spent half his life trying to forget. Back then, they’d been just young lads, sharing cheap wine and laughs. Thirty-five years ago? And now he was expected to exchange pleasantries with washed-up alcoholics because of—
“Mum! I’m here!” he called loudly as he opened the apartment door.
“Teddy!” she cried back cheerfully.
Why wouldn’t she just move in with him, into his massive estate? But no, she clung to this old flat like her life depended on it.
“How are you, Mum?”
His mother, at seventy-eight, was still sprightly. She walked fifteen thousand steps a day with her cane, ordered groceries online, and enjoyed modern films on the state-of-the-art equipment Edward had gifted her—though she never missed a chance to lament the decline of art. She travelled twice a year, either to sunny resorts or Europe. A modern elderly woman—Edward was proud of her. He was happy to support her. But her attachment to this flat? He couldn’t understand it. And every visit, the same unpleasant conversation crept in. He steered it there himself but couldn’t help it—it was a sore point.
“Mum, have you reconsidered?”
“About what?” asked Elizabeth Harrington innocently.
She was good at playing dumb when it suited her. Edward loved his mother—he’d miss her terribly when… well, he didn’t even want to think about that.
“You know what I mean! Move in with me! So I don’t have to keep coming here!”
“You don’t have to come,” she said breezily. “If you want to see me, we can meet in town.”
How could she say that so casually? Not visit? His own mother?
“I can’t *not* visit!” he snapped. “I need to make sure you’re alright—physically, mentally, everything.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean? That I’ve gone senile?” she asked sweetly.
Edward couldn’t help but grin.
“Mum, please—could you stop discussing my personal life with your gossiping friends?”
“Am I discussing it?” She raised an eyebrow.
“You must be, if the local drunks are asking whether I’ve remarried.”
“Maybe you *should* remarry!” she sighed. “Then you’d have less time to hover over me.”
“Is that how you see it? Me visiting—that’s hovering?”
“You don’t *just* visit. Sometimes it feels like you’re waiting for me to become feeble so you can drag me off to your fancy estate!”
“Mum!” Edward was genuinely offended.
She stood up and stamped her foot. “Yes! By force! You don’t understand—I just want to live out my days peacefully in the home I grew up in! The home where I raised you, you ungrateful boy!”
Edward actually took a step back. What had gotten into her?
“I’ll visit another time,” he muttered, heading for the door.
“Next time, come without this nonsense! I won’t move to your rich man’s neighbourhood!” she shouted after him.
Edward lived in a village just outside the affluent outskirts, but his mother lumped it all together—nouveau riche, upstarts, the lot. She’d worked at a university her whole life, teaching literature, risen to professor, headed the department. She’d buried his father young, at fifty-two. Back then, Edward had even encouraged her to remarry, but Elizabeth had refused.
“After your father, that part of life doesn’t interest me,” she’d said. “There’s so much else to enjoy in the world!”
At the time, Edward had been happily married to Margaret, raising their son, Peter. The boy had turned out rotten—gone off to study in America and never returned. After the divorce eight years ago, Edward had found himself truly alone—which suited him just fine, most days. But sometimes, a thought nagged: was he repeating his mother’s fate? Maybe they were more alike than he cared to admit. She refused to leave her flat; he’d grown so high-and-mighty that saying hello to David felt beneath him. What was the big deal, really? They’d been mates once.
“Let’s go, James,” Edward said gloomily, sliding into the car.
Before getting in, he cast a glance at the quiet courtyard—no one around. Once, this place, just a stone’s throw from central London, had seemed fine to him. When had he become such a snob?
“Home?” James asked.
“No, the office. Some paperwork to finish.”
He needed to review the documents for Compass—whether to buy or not. Three hundred million was no small sum, even if his managers had already vetted the deal. Edward liked to double-check everything. Stay in control. Or was his mother right?
He caught James’s sympathetic glance in the rearview mirror.
“What now?” Edward grumbled.
“You work too hard, sir. If I had your money, I’d never lift a finger again—just sit by the pool with a cigar and a glass of whisky somewhere tropical!”
Edward chuckled. James kept him entertained—the lad was young, unafraid to speak his mind. No airs about him. For a generous salary, he never complained, never missed a day, was always there when needed. Come to think of it—when had James last taken a holiday? Maybe he *should* go sit by a pool with a cigar.
“Tired, are you, Jim?”
“Not at all, sir. Just saying.”
“Fine. Forget the office—tell Strokins to email me the documents. Take me home.”
On the drive back, Edward considered inviting a lady over. There was no shortage of young, beautiful women eager to spend time with him. Some were even clever—well-read, educated. It wasn’t unpleasant, showering them with gifts. But the hopeful glint in their eyes? That was exhausting. Each one silently calculating: would this old fool marry her? As if his billions were up for grabs.
No, he decided. A quiet evening with a book and a bottle from his wine cellar suited him better. Maybe the 2004 Château Lafite Rothschild—not the 2010, that was too precious. A pleasant night for a lonely billionaire. No need for company.
He didn’t even ask for the Compass documents. The next day would do. The evening unfolded as planned—wine, book. But his mind kept circling back to his mother. Was his garden not good enough for her walks? The paved paths, the staff to fetch her groceries, the cook who prepared meals finer than any restaurant?
Then it hit him so hard he spilled wine on his trousers.
He was *lonely*.
At fifty-four, he *needed* his mum. What a realisation.
He’d failed to keep his family. Work had consumed him, left no time for Margaret. Peter had vanished abroad. And when his wife, out of loneliness, had an affair with a neighbour—well, Edward had thrown her out. Not without financial provision, but with finality.
“You’re the one to blame! Teddy, forgive me!” she’d begged.
“You stupid—” he’d roared. “Have you lost your mind? You humiliate me like this? Be glad I don’t throttle you!”
At forty-six, Margaret had looked thirty—thanks to his money. And that stung. What man would want her without his millions?
But Margaret had been more wounded by being called old than by the other insults. Not that Edward cared. She cheated—she was out. Fair. Another man might’ve left her penniless, but Edward knew better. No prenup? A messy court battle could’ve cost him half his fortune. Better to pay her off cleanly.
Her loverThe affair had happened eight years ago, yet in that moment, as Edward stared at the wine stain on his trousers, it felt like yesterday—a sharp reminder of how swiftly life could unravel, and how little money truly mended a broken heart.
