“Right. Three hundred at the yacht club. I hope you have a good wedding planner.” A wedding with three hundred guests might not seem intimate to some, but when it comes to Greek weddings, it is, indeed, a modest number.
“I’ve got the best of the best. She’s flown over from New York, and she’s used to working under pressure on last-minute events.” Demetria pauses. “Which brings me to the next topic. Money. I need funds for the wedding. And for some of Julian’s guests who can’t afford to attend unless we pay for it.”
“Sure. Let me know how much and I’ll take care of it.” Since being in charge of the Stavros family fortune, I’ve never turned down a request for money. My responsibility is to keep my mother and sister comfortable and give them whatever they need, no questions asked. If this wedding turns out to be a mistake, so be it. In most cases, when people suddenly inherit a lot of money, the funds are quickly drained by reckless spending, and I’m proud I’ve done the opposite.
“Thank you!” Demetria’s voice grows louder. I imagine her bouncing up and down the way she does when she gets excited. “And I have one final request.”
“Of course you do,” I joke. “Tell me.”
Ruby has abandoned her cooking entirely, leaning against the opposite counter to watch me. From her expression, I’d almost think she understands Greek.
“Well, I was wondering,” Demetria says, dropping a pause for effect. “If you’d be my maid of honor.”
“You know I will.” My smile widens. I may not be convinced about this impromptu wedding, but I can’t change her mind, so I’ll be there with bells and whistles. “Thank you. It’s an honor.”
Demetria’s delighted squeal makes me hold the phoneaway from my ear. “Perfect! Oh, and bring Ruby as your plus-one. Don’t worry, I haven’t told Mom,” she quickly adds. “But she’s been talking about her, and she wants her to come.”
I frown. “What? Mom’s been talking about Ruby? Why?”
“Because she liked her, obviously. She said Ruby was refreshing and a positive influence on you. High praise from our mother, as you know.”
I glance at Ruby, who’s raised her eyebrows at the mention of her name. “I’d love to bring her, but it’s short notice so I can’t promise anything.”
“Look, bring her, don’t bring her. It’s up to you. But the invitation stands, and I’d love to have you both there.” There’s a muffled sound in the background, and Demetria’s voice grows distant for a moment. “Yes, darling, just a minute!” She returns to the phone. “I’ve got to run—Julian’s waiting to finalize the guest list. I’ll text you all the details, okay? Love you!”
And then she’s gone. I set the phone down and look at Ruby. “So,” I say, pouring us both a glass of wine. “Want to come to a wedding next week?”
Ruby looks baffled. “Your sister’s getting married? Just like that?”
“Apparently so. Demetria has always had a flair for the dramatic and impulsive. She’s always been like this—deciding something in an instant and making it happen, consequences be damned. Once, when she was twelve, she decided she wanted to be a ballerina. Within twenty-four hours, she’d convinced our parents to enroll her in the most prestigious dance academy in Greece.”
“Did she stick with it?”
I laugh. “God, no. She quit after a month. But that’s Demetria—all passion, no patience.”
Ruby’s hand finds mine on the countertop. “And she wants me to come too?”
“She does. And supposedly, so does my mother. I’m still processing that particular revelation, which is…interesting.” I shake my head. “Anyway, you’re hereby invited as my plus-one to my sister’s wedding in Santorini next week. I know you’re busy, but?—”
“Are you serious? Santorini? With you?” Ruby grins. “Of course I want to come!”
I take a long sip of wine to hide my face, trying not to let Ruby see the mild panic setting in. I’m about to bring someone home.
Luckily, my moment of internal crisis is interrupted by dark smoke rising from the grill. Ruby whirls around with a yelp, yanking open the oven door to reveal charcoal ciabatta. The smoke detector joins the chaos with its high-pitched wail as Ruby frantically waves a dish towel beneath it, her face a perfect portrait of culinary defeat.
“Well,” she says, coughing through the smoke. “What do you feel like? Thai or Italian for takeout?”
FIFTY-FIVE
RUBY
The car glides through the private section of Athens airport, Athena beside me as we head toward the waiting jet. Despite our fourteen-hour journey, she looks immaculate and fresh, while I feel the weariness of international travel in every muscle.
"The jet will take us directly to Santorini," she says, noticing my gaze through the window where a sleek white aircraft with gold trim awaits.
"The private jet," I clarify, still processing this reality. "From Athens to Santorini. Because a commercial flight would be...what? Too pedestrian?"
Athena shoots me a look that's half amusement, half defensiveness. "It's a thirty-minute private flight versus waiting seven hours for a connecting commercial flight or taking a ferry that would waste an entire day."
