Days later, he returned to his mansion, pretending he was still blind. He found Victoria packing valuables into suitcases.
“No need for Switzerland,” he said calmly.
He removed his glasses.
Her face drained of color as she realized he was watching her every move.
Police escorted her out.
Alex stood in the silent, marble hall that once defined his life.
“Sell it,” he told Daniel. “All of it.”
“And where will you go?”
Alex smiled toward the doorway, where Grace and Eleanor waited.
“Home.”
A year later, sunlight filtered through trees beside a modest coastal house. The old kitchen table stood restored in the yard.
Grace ran barefoot through the grass. Eleanor carried a pot of soup.
Alex set down plates, watching the sunlight glint off the ocean.
“I had to lose my sight to learn how to see,” he said softly.
Grace grinned. “I told you I could fix your eyes.”
He laughed.
“You didn’t just fix my eyes. You fixed my heart.”
And as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in colors he would never again take for granted, Alexander Whitmore understood something simple and unshakable:
True wealth was never in the mansion.
It was at that table.
