Chapter 110 — The Life of the Rich
After agreeing to meet again, the distance between them closed a little.
Not in a warm, obvious way—
more like a quiet understanding: this wasn't a one-time conversation anymore.
Ethan kept asking about the "rich life" he'd always been curious about but never really touched.
And Bobby started asking him about medicine in return.
The mood gradually loosened.
"You said earlier…" Ethan couldn't help himself. "You have a private jet?"
"Yes." Bobby nodded.
"A yacht?"
Bobby paused for a second. "Yes."
"How big?"
"Big enough," he said, "that I can disappear at sea for months… and no one would know where I am."
Ethan nodded, didn't press further, and switched topics.
"Mansion?"
"A few."
"Where do you live now?"
"Connecticut."
Ethan smiled. "The kind with a lawn, fences, and an outdoor pool? Huge standalone house?"
"Yes."
"How many sports cars?"
Bobby thought for a moment, then gave a simple answer:
"Enough that I don't have to repeat within a week."
Ethan paused, took another bite of pizza, then a sip of water.
Then he asked:
"You're already this rich. In theory, you could stop working for the rest of your life."
He looked at Bobby.
"So why keep going?"
Bobby didn't answer right away.
He picked up his glass, slowly turning it.
"Because money was never the end goal."
His voice was calm.
"It's just a scoreboard."
"What people get addicted to… is proving it again and again."
"Proving you didn't get here by luck."
"Proving your judgment, your vision, your nerve—still hold up in the next round."
He looked at Ethan.
"For a lot of people, work itself is the game."
"Identity. Influence. Winning. It's all in there."
He smiled faintly.
"And some people… just have a high tolerance for dopamine."
"They're not chasing the result."
"They're chasing the process—taking something that looks impossible, and finishing it."
"At that moment, everything goes quiet."
"No applause. No celebration."
"Just one clear thought—
I beat who I was yesterday."
Ethan nodded.
He agreed.
When you have goals, challenges, feedback—that feeling can't be replaced.
"Doing nothing feels best" is just temporary escape.
What really hooks you… is doing what you're good at, what you enjoy—and finishing it, again and again.
Just like him.
Treating patients. Saving people.
Pulling someone back from the edge—or from the abyss.
That kind of satisfaction couldn't be replaced by any number.
Not even the usual temptations.
Bobby shifted the topic back.
Ethan answered honestly:
"My skills aren't absolute."
"Some things I can treat. Some depend on luck."
"But so far, I've always found a way to keep things from getting worse—
only better."
Bobby watched him for a few seconds.
"How did you get that ability?"
Ethan smiled.
"Like talent."
"You came into this world with a talent for making money."
"And I came in with… the part that heals people."
He paused.
"Honestly, I think things are pretty good like this."
"Good how?" Bobby asked.
Ethan leaned back, relaxed but clear-headed.
"You know what people say online?"
"Tell the truth to strangers—
and lie to people close to you."
"If we end up as friends, then what we say today becomes leverage."
"If not, we're just strangers. Doesn't matter either way."
"So… maybe we can ask some real questions."
Bobby thought for a few seconds, then nodded.
"Fine. But don't ask something that makes me want to leave."
"Like asking when it was your first time and how long it lasted."
"Deal."
Ethan smiled.
"I'll start. I'm younger."
He looked straight at him.
"How did you build your wealth?"
He paused slightly.
"And… was any of it illegal?"
Bobby laughed.
"That's the kind of question that makes me want to pay and walk out."
But he didn't avoid it.
"On the day of the September 11 attacks, I survived."
"After that, I started trading heavily."
"The trades themselves—were legal."
Ethan raised an eyebrow.
"Legal trades don't make someone tens of billions in a few days."
Bobby nodded without hesitation.
"You're right."
"Looks like you did your homework."
"Some things need momentum."
"Information spreads. Emotions build."
"And someone has to push it."
"I just… gave it a push."
"That's all."
He looked at Ethan, calm and steady.
"I don't know if that counts as illegal."
"But I do know—if I say it out loud, it causes trouble."
Ethan asked, "Does anyone else know?"
"Yes," Bobby said. "Someone wrote a book."
"Was it published?"
"Not that part." Bobby paused. "My wife handled it."
"How?" Ethan leaned forward slightly.
Bobby spoke like he was reviewing an old deal.
"The author was a former colleague's widow."
"My wife supported her—living expenses, gym membership, golf club, her kid's education. Everything."
"But she wrote about that period. Didn't paint me well."
"My wife asked her to remove it. She refused."
Ethan leaned in a little more. "And then?"
"Then everything stopped."
"Gym. Golf club. Private school. College pathways."
"When her cards stopped working, reservations disappeared, and her kid could only go to an average fallback school—"
Bobby shrugged.
"She stopped calling us bloodsuckers who profited from disaster."
"And deleted the chapter herself."
The room went quiet for a second.
Ethan gave his own silent judgment, but didn't say it.
He just raised his glass.
"Got it."
"Honestly… I feel a bit sorry for you."
"And a bit jealous."
"You've got a very capable wife."
Bobby clinked glasses with him.
"And you? You don't look tied down."
"How many girlfriends?"
"Just one ex I still keep in touch with."
Bobby frowned slightly.
"How's that possible? Girls that picky now?"
"Maybe times changed." Ethan shrugged. "Women now would rather be responsible for themselves than for a relationship."
They paused and ate.
Bobby suddenly asked, "What about James Whitmore? His Alzheimer's—was it cured?"
"Sorry." Ethan shook his head. "Doctor–patient confidentiality."
"But I can tell you this—here, it won't get worse."
"Okay." Bobby nodded. "Understood."
Ethan remembered something.
"Right—your employee with pancreatic cancer. How's he doing?"
For the first time that night, Bobby's expression changed.
He went quiet for a moment.
"I want your professional opinion."
"My advice is simple," Ethan said. "The sooner he comes in, the better."
"I can't promise results."
"But it will move in a better direction."
That wasn't exactly what Bobby asked.
But he still nodded.
"Alright."
"Monday morning. I'll bring him in."
Ethan nodded.
"That's the best choice."
(End of Chapter)