The Wealthy Husband
Zachary Harrington cast out his wife after her infidelity with a vengeance. True, he provided for her, but he never wished to speak to her again, under any circumstances!
“It’s your fault, Zachary! Forgive me!” Julia pleaded disjointedly.
“Have you lost your mind in your old age?” he roared. “To disgrace me like this? Be thankful I’m simply tossing you out!”
Julia, like him, was forty-six at the time. Thanks to his wealth, she could pass for thirty at most—a fact that only deepened Zachary’s resentment. What man would glance twice at a woman of her age without such a fortune poured into her upkeep?
—
“Zachary, hello! Why the cold shoulder?” called a voice from the distant past—a neighbour, David, if memory served.
Zachary gritted his teeth. What cruel fate had brought him back to this place? Years had passed since he’d left this house, yet still, he was recognized—addressed by name, no less. And by whom? The local drunk. One of many.
The driver’s window rolled down, and Steven murmured, “Need assistance, Mr. Harrington?”
Zachary waved him off. He strode briskly toward the building, ignoring the man who had once been more than just a neighbour—perhaps even a friend. How long ago that had been…
“Never remarried after the divorce, eh? Still a bachelor?” David persisted.
Or was his name even David? What did it matter? Zachary had spent half his life trying to forget that time when he and David—and the other misfortunates—were just young lads, drinking cheap wine in each other’s company. Thirty-five years ago? And now he was expected to greet some sodden wreck, all because of his mother…
“Hello, Mum!” he called loudly, stepping inside.
“Zachary!” she cried joyfully.
Why wouldn’t she move in with him, into his grand estate? She clung to this old family flat with a stubbornness he couldn’t fathom.
“How are you, Mum?”
At seventy-eight, his mother was still spry—clocking fifteen thousand steps daily with her walking sticks, deftly ordering groceries via an app, and enjoying modern films on the state-of-the-art home theatre he’d gifted her. She adored lambasting “the decline of art,” as she put it, and traveled twice a year, either to warmer climes or Europe. A thoroughly modern old lady—Zachary admired her. Yet her attachment to this flat baffled him, and every visit inevitably circled back to the same argument. He always steered it there, unable to help himself—a sore subject indeed.
“Mum, you still haven’t reconsidered?”
“Reconsidered what?” Galina asked innocently.
She was a master at feigning ignorance when it suited her. Zachary loved his mother—he would miss her terribly when… No, he couldn’t even entertain the thought.
“You know what I mean! Move in with me! Save me these trips!”
“You needn’t come at all. I don’t force you. If you wish to see me, we can meet in the city.”
How could she speak so casually of such things? Not visit? She was his mother—his dearest relation!
“I can’t *not* visit!” he declared. “I need to see you’re all right—here, and… generally.”
“Generally, meaning… my wits?” she inquired sweetly.
Zachary couldn’t suppress a smile.
“Mum, Mum! Must you gossip about my personal life with your cronies?”
“Do I?” She arched a brow.
“Clearly, if the local drunks are asking if I’ve remarried!”
“Perhaps you *should* remarry,” she sighed. “Then you’d fuss over me less.”
“Is that how it seems?” Zachary frowned. “My visits—you call that *fussing*?”
“You don’t just visit! I feel you’re waiting for me to grow feeble so you can drag me off to your Surrey estate!”
“Mum!” Zachary was aghast.
His mother rose from her chair and stamped her foot.
“Yes! *Drag* me! You’ll never understand—I just want to live out my days in peace, in the flat where I grew up! Where *you* grew up, you ungrateful boy!”
Zachary actually recoiled. What had gotten into her?
“I’ll visit another time,” he muttered, heading for the door.
“Next time, come without these absurd suggestions!” she shouted after him. “I won’t be hauled off to Surrey to live among nouveaux riches!”
Zachary lived in a village eight kilometers from the posh Surrey lanes, but his mother couldn’t be bothered with details. To her, it was all the same—new money, upstarts, and so on. She had spent her career as a professor of foreign literature, chairing her department. Widowed early, at fifty-two, she’d been young and lively. Zachary wouldn’t have minded if she’d remarried, but she’d declared, “After Elijah, that part of life holds no interest. There’s so much else worth doing!”
Back then, Zachary had been happily married to Julia, raising their son, Peter. But Peter, the little wretch, had left for university in England and never returned. After the divorce eight years ago—sparked by Julia’s affair—Zachary found himself utterly alone. And, truth be told, he was content… most of the time. Except when he wondered: was he repeating his mother’s fate? She refused to leave her flat; he couldn’t bring himself to greet an old friend fallen on hard times. Why? Once, they’d been young men together, sharing cheap wine and laughter. Now he disdained even a greeting.
—
“Steven, drive,” Zachary muttered, sliding into the car.
Before entering, he glanced around the quiet courtyard—empty, thankfully. Once, this place, just a stone’s throw from Hyde Park, had seemed fine. When had he become so high and mighty?
“Home, sir?”
“No. The office. Some matters need attending.”
He needed to review the Compass deal—worth considering? Or a waste of three hundred million? His manager had already vetted it, but Zachary liked to double-check. Keep his finger on the pulse. Control.
Or perhaps his mother was right.
He caught Steven’s gaze in the rearview—sympathetic.
“What now?” Zachary snapped.
“You work too much, sir. If I had your money, I’d retire tomorrow! Sit by a pool with a cigar and a drink—let no one drag me away!”
Zachary laughed. Steven amused him—young, unfiltered, but utterly reliable. Never late, never sick, never complaining. Odd, though—when had Steven last taken a holiday? Maybe *he* should go sit by a pool somewhere…
“Tired, Steven?”
“Not at all, sir.”
“Take leave, if you want. Have I overworked you?”
“I’ll rest when I’m dead,” Steven quipped.
“Fine. Forget the office. Have Strokin email the documents. Take me home.”
En route to Surrey, Zachary debated inviting a lady for the evening. There were plenty—young, beautiful, educated. Some even intelligent. He enjoyed their company, even liked spoiling them. But their hopeful gazes unnerved him—each dreaming the old fool might marry her. Better to open a bottle from his cellar—Château Mouton Rothschild 2004, perhaps—and read. A pleasant evening for a lonely billionaire.
—
Yet his thoughts kept circling back to his mother. Why cling to that flat? His estate had vast gardens, staff to tend her every need. And he *needed* her—he, a grown man of fifty-four, yearning for his mum like a boy. Pathetic.
Julia’s betrayal had been ugly. He’d worked relentlessly, provided everything, yet neglected her. Peter was already abroad. Julia, lonely, had taken up with a neighbour. Their cook, Martha, had revealed it—no malice, just honesty.
He’d thrown Julia out, of course—generously, but decisively.
“You’re to blame!” Julia had babbled. “Zachary, forgive me!”
“You’ve lost your mind, shaming me like this!” he’d roared. “Be grateful I didn’t strangle you!”
Forty-six, yet passing for thirty—another sting. What man would want her without his fortune?
—
For weeks after the argument, Zachary stayed away. Then, alarmed by his mother’s weak voice on the phone, he rushed over.
A woman he didn’t recognize answered the door.
“Where’s Mum?” he barked, shoving past her.
“Hush! She’s asleep!” The woman—Natalie, David’s sister—barred his way.
Mum had fallen, hit her head. Natalie, a nurse, was tending her.
“Why didn’t she call me?”
“Didn’t want to worry you.”
“I’m taking her home!”
“That’s what she feared.”
Natalie’s sarcasm pricked him.And in the end, Zachary realized that wealth could never fill the quiet spaces of the heart, nor buy back the years he’d spent too proud to cherish the simple joys of love and family.
