Page 19 of Ungodly Rich

As for Harry’s mother, her name was listed on various philanthropic websites—the New York City Ballet, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Garden Club of America’s Upper East Side location—and that was it. Like her husband, she had zero photographic presence.

Their speedboat hit a wave and Julia yelped, holding her baseball cap so it wouldn’t fly off. Harry reflexively reached an arm around her, tucking her into his side.

The past twenty-four hours had been a surreal blur, starting with the private plane that had picked them up in Queenstown—a plane that was twice as big as their entire apartment. It had stopped to refuel in Mumbai, amid profuse apologies from the pilot, who explained that even the biggest jets couldn’t carry enough fuel for a twenty-one-hour flight. When they boarded and the flight attendant stepped forward to introduce herself as Blair, Julia had shot Harry an incredulous glance, wondering why they needed a flight attendant for just the two of them. Harry had fiddled with his AirPods, oblivious.

“Would you like some wine?” Blair asked. When Julia nodded, Blair pressed, “What type? Mr. Ellene stocks the plane with everything, though his preference is usually a Bordeaux vertical.”

“Um, sure. That sounds great,” Julia had mumbled. The type of wine she’d been about to request wasred.

To Julia’s dismay, and Harry’s amusement, Blair returned a few minutes later with three glasses of wine. “A lovely vertical, if I do say so. The ’03, ’04, and ’05 Château Margaux.”

“Here, I’ll save you the trouble of doing the whole vertical,” Harry whispered conspiratorially, once Blair had departed. He leaned over to push the last glass toward Julia. “The ’05 is best by a mile.”

She reached for the wine and swallowed a big gulp, trying to hide how overwhelmed she felt. Since when was a single glass of wine at atime insufficient? What else did billionaires do differently, if they didn’t evendrinklike normal people?

When they landed in Athens, a waiting SUV had shuttled them to the docks, where they’d boarded a motorized yacht for the ninety-minute ride to the Ellenes’ private island.

As they drew closer, Julia realized that a mountain—or was it a dormant volcano?—rose up from the center of the island, so tall that its summit was shrouded in clouds. It reminded her of photos she’d seen of Mount Etna. “Wherearewe?”

“In the Aegean Sea. Mykonos is a few hours that way.” Harry pointed across the deep blue water. Julia obediently glanced over, though all she saw was endless horizon.

They pulled up to the dock, where a cluster of young men in polos and khaki shorts stood ready to tether the boat. A few of them jumped on board to collect her and Harry’s suitcases, which suddenly looked battered and pitiful.

As soon as they’d disembarked, another man stepped forward, holding a tray with two drinks on it. “Sir,” he murmured to Harry, gesturing to a crystal tankard of foamy beer. Then he nodded in Julia’s direction. “My apologies, miss, I didn’t know your preference, but an Aperol spritz is customary this time of day.”

“Thank you.” Julia reached for the glass, which had a slice of blood orange bobbing merrily at the top. She’d seen people drink these on the cruise line but had never actually tried one.

“Harry! You made it!”

A woman with dark blond hair was half-jogging toward the dock, lifting a hand to shade her owlish gray eyes.

“Alina.” Harry’s smile was genuine, his eyes crinkling with delight. “I’ve missed you.”

Julia knew next to nothing about Harry’s sister Alina, except that she split her time between Shanghai, Tokyo, and London, running the European and Asian offices of TWL.

She watched as Harry pulled Alina into a brief hug, then stepped back just as quickly. Both of them looked embarrassed by their own display of affection.

“You brought a date! Smart move,” Alina murmured, then held out a hand in Julia’s direction. Julia introduced herself, wondering what exactly Alina meant by that remark. Had Harry’s family been judgmental when he showed up at previous reunions alone?

“Julia went to Harvard, too,” Harry offered his sister, who brightened.

“Oh, you did? Which school?”

It took a moment for Julia to realize that Alina was asking which graduate program Julia had done. “I went to Harvard for undergrad. I was an art history major.” She smiled in amusement. This was probably the first time in her life that she’d felt inferior about doing college, and only college, at Harvard. “You were in law school, right?” she asked Alina. “Or was it business school?”

“Oh, I did both,” Alina said, almost carelessly.

Julia’s eyes widened. “Impressive. I think the only thing harder than a JD/MBA is probably an MD/JD. I’ve heard everyone drops out of that one within a year.”

Alina opened her mouth to reply. For an instant, Julia thought she was going to say that shealsohad a medical degree, but that would be impossible, right?

Harry cleared his throat. “Can you ladies do your Harvard reminiscing later?”

“Of course. You must both be exhausted.” Alina led them up a winding stone path, chattering to Julia about her college classes. She had a truly impressive knowledge of the art history course catalog. Julia kept stealing glances at Alina, wondering how much older she was than Harry—two, maybe four years? Her face was unlined, her steel-gray eyes bright and assessing. She was tall, and though Julia wouldn’t have called her graceful, she walked with precise, clean, purposeful steps that made Julia aware of her own walk, a tired and halfhearted shuffle.

They passed verdant green lawns that sloped toward the sea, dotted with olive and citrus trees. At least a dozen villas were scattered over the landscape, glittering like sugar cubes in the late afternoon sun.

“Really, Harry, I’m glad you’re back,” Alina was saying to her brother. “The last few council meetings were brutal without you. I hadto listen to Diana drone on about astrology and lunar cycles, without anyone to play hangman with.”