When I offered shelter to a woman with nowhere left to go, I never imagined she would force me to confront the life I’d spent decades hiding from.
I had wealth most people only see in magazines. A glass-front mansion perched above the ocean, garages filled with vintage cars, accounts that never seemed to shrink no matter how little attention I paid them.
What I didn’t have was noise. Or warmth. Or someone who knew my name without seeing my net worth first.
At sixty-one, I had perfected emotional distance. My parents’ sudden deaths decades earlier had left me in charge of a sprawling empire before I’d learned how to grieve. Since then, every relationship felt transactional. Suspicion replaced affection. Eventually, I stopped trying altogether.
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