**”Playing the Pauper”**
Timothy gritted his teeth as he pressed the doorbell. *Let them see what kind of relatives they really are.* But he never imagined—
*”Thinking you’d ride into heaven on the back of my fortune? I’m not some bloody cash cow!”* He smirked, shoving his hands into his coat pockets as the door swung open.
“Darling, what’s wrong? You’re so tense,” Emily said, her sharp eyes catching the storm in his expression before he even stepped inside.
“Em, we need to talk.” Still in his overcoat, Timothy strode past her into the lavish sitting room, its gilded decor at odds with the thundercloud in his face.
“What’s happened?” She froze in the doorway, fingers tightening around the edge—cold dread prickling up her spine.
“The business…” He sank into an armchair, dragging his hands down his face. “A major project collapsed. We’re hemorrhaging money.”
“What do you mean, *collapsed*? How bad?” Emily perched beside him, gripping his wrist.
“I laid off half the staff today. No funds to pay them. The investors’ money—gone. The council halted construction over *violations*.” His laugh was hollow, eyes fixed on the polished oak flooring as if it held answers.
“What does this mean for *us*?” Her voice wavered, pulse rattling in her throat.
“Two bits of news: good and bad. Which d’you want first?” He avoided her gaze, feigning calm while fury boiled beneath.
“The bad.”
“Accounts are frozen. I was questioned by the fraud squad this morning.” The words came out flat, like he still couldn’t believe them himself.
“And the *good* news?” Emily’s laugh was brittle.
“Well… I won’t be going to prison.” He attempted a grin, flicking a glance at her.
“Oh, *fantastic*.” She stalked to the bar, sloshing a double measure of single-malt into a crystal tumbler. “How do we *live* now? Did you think of that when you gambled on that bloody development?” The whisky burned down her throat in one swallow.
“Who could’ve predicted this?” Timothy spread his hands, as though pleading with the air itself.
“Timothy!” Emily slammed the glass down. “The turkey didn’t see Christmas coming either!”
Her voice climbed shriller. “What’s left for us? Fifty grand a month? Less?”
“Three to five hundred thousand pounds, give or take.” He scratched his stubble, staring past her at the towering pines swaying beyond the window.
“*Three hundred thousand*?” She all but shrieked. “My *spa bills* are twice that! The driver, the couture, the—”
Another gulp of whisky.
“Go easy on that,” he muttered. “Expensive headache tomorrow. And we can’t afford it anymore.”
“*How long*?” Her nails bit into her palms.
“No idea, love. Ride it out, I suppose.” He took a measured sip, watching her over the rim.
“*Ride it out*? You’ve ruined us, you fool!” The glass hit the coffee table with a crack.
“Thank God we never had children. How would I explain this?” She spat the words like venom before vanishing upstairs.
“Exactly the reaction I expected,” Timothy murmured, lips quirking. “Let’s see what Mummy dearest says tomorrow.”
—
Dawn brought the shrill scream of his mother-in-law’s call. Margaret Hargrove rose at five, and Emily’s dramatics had clearly roused her.
“*Broke*? What d’you mean, *broke*?” Margaret’s voice could’ve shattered crystal. “Who pays my mortgage now?”
“Take out a loan. Or sell the flat in Bath—it’s just sitting there,” Timothy drawled, stretching in bed.
“How *dare* you! Are you *mad*?” she shrilled. “We had a perfect life!”
“That was *my* generosity, Margaret. I owed you *nothing*.” He flicked the call to speakerphone, ambling toward the ensuite.
“*Nothing*? You churn out those luxury flats like biscuits! Housing family is your *duty*!” Her screeches chased him.
“When will the money return?” she hissed.
“God knows. Goodbye, Margaret.” He ended the call mid-tirade, humming as he brushed his teeth.
—
By evening, Timothy’s study revealed gaping absences: his Rolex, his custom golf clubs, the crocodile-skin briefcase—gone.
“Emily. Where are my things?” His voice was deadly calm.
“Sold them.” She didn’t look up from stacking £50 notes on the sofa. “I need to live.”
“My *clubs*? My *watch*?” Rage corded his neck.
“Golf’s a luxury, darling.” Her smile was ice. “Check your phone for the time.”
“*Your* Hermès collection could buy a Mayfair flat! Why *only* my things?” His fists clenched—violence wasn’t his way, but Christ, she tested him.
“Not *my* problem.” A lick of her thumb, another note counted. “Three hundred eighty grand. That’ll cover *my* needs.”
“*Yours*?” He laughed bitterly. “Those watches were worth seven *million*!”
“Sort yourself out, Timothy. I’m *fragile*. Two days of this stress!” She tossed the cash into a Birkin, heels clicking toward the door. “And *do* help Mummy. She’s *devastated*.”
—
The pub’s dim glow caught the glint in his oldest friend’s eye.
“She’s lost it, James. Sold my *bloody* things!” Timothy slammed his pint down. “Knew she only wanted the money.”
“But she stood by you when you were broke,” James protested. “Five years—”
“Understand *this*,” Timothy snarled, tearing at a pork scratchings packet. “I set this up to see her true colours. The lawyers spent a *month* ensuring she’d get *nothing* in the divorce.”
James paled. “You’re *testing* her?”
“If she bolts, it’s over.” Timothy checked his phone, then stood abruptly. “Cheers, mate. Work calls.”
The second the door swung shut, James yanked out his phone.
“Emily, *listen*—it’s a trap! He’s *not* broke!” His whisper was frantic. “Play sweet, or we lose *everything*!”
Unseen, a man at the neighboring table slid out, dialing as he left.
“Confirmed, sir. They’re scheming.” The audio clip hissed through the phone’s speaker—James’ panicked voice, crystal-clear.
Back in the Bentley, Timothy massaged his temples. “One flaw, Leonard. Why hint we *have* money? Now they’ll dig.”
Leonard chuckled. “They’ll find offshore shells, empty accounts. The houses, cars—all under shell companies. You’re *penniless* on paper. Trust the process.”
“Wrap it up tonight.” Timothy exhaled, watching raindrops slide down the window.
—
Home. Emily and James stood flanked by six security men. Fear rolled off them in waves.
“One thing I don’t get.” Timothy’s voice was lethally quiet. “You had *everything*. Why gamble it?”
Emily opened her mouth—
“*Not* a dialogue.” He sliced the air with his hand. “James. *Childhood* friends. I funded your failed ventures. Was envy really worth this?”
A nod to the maid. Suitcases thudded into the hall.
“Keep what you stole. That’s your parting gift.” He turned away. “Men will drive you to the train station.”
Neither saw him again.
Emily sold her mother’s London flat (paid off by Timothy) and vanished into obscurity. James drowned himself in whisky, a ruined man.
Timothy? He thrived. A year later, whispers linked him to his sharp-witted PA—though marriage wasn’t on the cards.
Betrayal, they say, is a choice. No one *accidentally* undresses.
True or not, the sun shines the same on loyal and faithless alike.
