Forty-eight years of being the man featured in business magazines, financial news, and boardroom conversations where everyone smiled — but no one truly knew him.
And that day, not one person had called to say happy birthday.
He set his briefcase down on an Italian leather chair, loosened a tie that cost more than most people’s monthly rent, and stood still in the center of his enormous living room. Eighteen rooms. Manicured gardens with a fountain. A wine cellar stocked from four continents.
And silence so deep it almost hurt.
His phone had rung 22 times that day. Board meetings. Investment offers. A lawyer asking about a contract.
But not his sister Emily, who lived just 20 minutes away in the luxury condo he had bought her.
Not his longtime business partner Richard.
Not his ex-girlfriend Lauren, who once said she’d never feel alone with him — until real life became harder than luxury.
“Happy birthday, Michael,” he muttered to himself bitterly.
He walked toward the private bar and poured a glass of 12-year-old Scotch. He was ready to sit alone, staring out at the lit garden, asking himself the same question he asked every night:
What is the point of all this?