Chapter 3

Third-Person POV

The paper shook in Edward Hayes’s hand, though not because of his age.

Even at the age of eighty, his hold remained firm

His fingers paled against the stained newspaper as he looked at the headline.

"Notorious billionaire heir Damien Hayes was seen leaving the club with two models at 3am."

The page's pictures had cockiness, like his grandson wearing sunglasses and driving a Lamborghini at night, the same smug smirk that curled his lips that we had grown up with.

Another scandal. Another disgrace.

“It’s good publicity,” Catherine, Damien’s mother, spoke.

“Tabloids love him. People love the drama.”

The noise of the paper striking the oak desk shattered the quiet like a gunshot. The high ceiling carried its echo as both his children flinched.

“Good publicity?” Edward’s voice lashed out, sharp and steady.

“Is that what we built this empire for? So Damian can make a mockery of it with every headline?”

Michael, Damien's father, tightened his jaw, though his face remained expressionless.

“Father, he’s young. Every heir goes through a wild phase.”

“This isn’t wildness,” Edward growled, leaning forward. “This is deterioration.  Every tabloid that prints his name erases the respect your grandfather and I bled for. Money is no excuse to waste a life.”

The door suddenly opened then, and Damian walked in, tall, impeccably dressed, and radiating entitlement. He caught sight of the article and laughed.

“Ah, you saw the show.” He dropped into a chair, entirely too casual. “Don’t worry, Grandpa. I’m just living like any twenty-six-year-old millionaire should.”

Isabella's soft persuasion shattered his defenses, causing the old Edward to feel a surge of disgust twist in his chest. Damian resembled Michael greatly at that age, yet lacked discipline, respect, and humility

“You’re destroying yourself,” Edward said flatly.

“And you’re dragging the Hayes name down with you. Is that what you want? To be remembered as a headline?”

“Better that than to be forgotten,” Damian replied, smirking.

For a fleeting second, Edward wanted to strike that arrogance off his face. But he only lifted a hand and gestured toward the door.

“Get out, Damian.”

The young man shrugged then. He walked by toward him, humming as if it was all a game to him.

Then silence existed.

From market crashes to hostile takeovers, Edward had never seen his empire quite this vulnerable. 

But now, staring at the closed door, he realized the rot had come from within.

That night, the decision came quietly. No plan. No calculation. Only a pull in his chest, a pang of memory tied to a name long buried.

Miguel Rivera.

It had been years since Edward had seen his old friend. Time, distance, and pride had built their walls. Yet, he remembered Miguel’s loyalty, the quiet dignity in a man who owned little but lived with honor.

And his words, uttered in a dusty warehouse decades ago:

“Edward, money may build walls, but love builds houses.”

The next morning, Edward asked his driver to take him to Brooklyn, to where the Rivera circle of relatives now lived.

The construction leaned with age, bricks chipped and weary, wedged between a laundromat and a corner shop. Yet, whilst Isabella Rivera opened the door, warm temperature spilled out, tender, honest, and surprising for a Hayes mansion.

“Señor Hayes?” she requested, startled, wiping her arms on her apron.

“Please come in. There is a little mess; I apologize for it." She spoke nervously.

The flat was compact yet neat, infused with the scent of cooking beans. On the table rested notebooks, receipts, and drawings of family budgets, all in tidy handwriting.

“It’s no mess,” Edward said softly when Isabella apologized. “It’s a home.”

Her weary smile glowed with quiet pride.

Then Nick bounded in, full of energy and curiosity.

“Mr. Hayes? Mom, you didn’t tell me he was visiting!”

“Because I didn’t know,” Isabella said, laughing.

Sofia entered then, calm and composed, balancing a tray of glasses. Taller than he remembered, eyes sharp yet kind. She moved with a quiet confidence that struck Edward still. Her hands bore the marks of work; her face, the fatigue of responsibility far too early assumed. And yet, there was grace in her every motion.

"Edward softly remarked, 'Miguel would have been proud of you two.'"

Sofia blinked. A small smile touched her lips near them.

“Gracias, Señor Hayes.”

They insisted that he stay around for dinner.

He hesitated at first, but Isabella's demeanor made him feel comfortable; he had dined with presidents and kings.

It was just rice, beans, and cooked chicken too. Nothing unusual.

And for the first time in years, he felt welcome.

Nick jokes that Sofia is the "most serious person on Earth" on account of this.

A smirk touched her lips after she rolled her eyes. Isabella laughed. Hers was an exhausted smile.

Edward found himself laughing too, genuinely. The sound startled him.

Sofia spoke of her business studies, her café job, her scholarship, and her dream to give her family stability, not luxury. Edward listened, silent, moved by her clarity of purpose.

Back in his mansion, laughter was hollow, echoing between marble and chandeliers.

Here, it was real. Here, it was love.

Miguel’s words echoed again:

“Wealth may build walls, but it’s love that builds homes.”

While Edward observed Sofia jotting down notes amidst her dinner, Nick vowing to make her proud, and Isabella beaming with silent pride, he experienced the profound clarity of truth sink deep within him.

Money had built the Hayes empire.

But love, love had built this.

And for the first time in decades, Edward Hayes understood what his legacy should truly mean.