Page 47 of Ungodly Rich

“I’m afraid I can’t attend the upcoming Curator’s Circle dinner. Would you manage it on my behalf?”

Hermes blinked in surprise. The Curator’s Circle was the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s most exclusive donor group, consisting of only a dozen families: those whose annual donations numbered in the seven figures, whose names graced entire wings of the museum. Hera adored these events, as much for the socializing among “our sort of people” as for the art.

“I’d love to. I’ll pick up Aphrodite on the way?” Hermes offered.

“Actually, I’d like you to bring Julia. Help her meet some people in the art world.”

Hermes took another thoughtful sip of coffee. Everyone knew that there was no love lost between Hera and Aphrodite, but still, the two goddesses tended to set aside their animosity for the sake of a Curator’s Circle event. Zeus never had any patience for museum functions, whereas Aphrodite shone at them. Shewasbeauty personified, after all. Hera had tried, a few times, to invite the muse Polymnia, only to complain afterward that Polymnia was as bad as Athena, cornering the artists and trapping them in long-winded conversations about artistic technique or symbolism. At least Aphrodite understood the value of networking and could be trusted to either flatter or ignore the other guests as they deserved.

Aphrodite looked forward to these events as much as Hera did. She would consider it a deliberate snub that a nobody mortal was attending in her place. And Hermes could guess why Hera had done it.

As grateful as he felt for the mending, and the coffee, Hera’s clucking mother-hen routine hadn’t fooled him. He was not her son, like Hephaestus and Ares. She would always think of Hermes as an employee. Someone to do her bidding.

“You’re asking me to spy on Julia.”

“Spyis such a strong word! I want you to spend time with her,” Hera said innocently.

“And report back to you?” Hermes was being impertinent, but when someone asked him a favor, he wanted the request spelled out in English. Or French, or Mandarin, or whatever language these particular dealings happened to be in. He knew from experience that if he wasn’t clear up front, trouble inevitably followed.

Actually, even when hewasclear, trouble usually followed. Probably because Hermes so loved stirring it up.

“Well, yes,” Hera admitted. “If you find anything out about the mortal, particularly anything suspicious, I hope you would share it with me.”

As usual, Hermes was tangling himself ever further in a knot of promises. He’d already told Hades that he would bring him intel like this. There was no easy way to deny Hera, but if she thought Hermes was double-crossing her—worse, if she learned that he was also working for Hades—he didn’t like to think of the consequences.

Well, it would hardly be the first time Hermes had walked a narrow tightrope between opposing factions among the gods. What was the point of it all, if he couldn’t stir the pot a little?

“I’ll keep an eye on Julia.” Hermes felt emboldened enough to ask a question. “Am I looking for anything in particular?”

In other words, what had Julia done to earn Hera’s suspicions?

“Oh, nothing. I’m just doing my due diligence as a mother. You know, watching over her for Ares’s sake.” Hera stood, giving Hermes’s shoulder one last pat. “Thank you, darling.”

Poor Julia, Hermes thought as he pulled out his phone to text the mortal woman. Hera was not someone you wanted as an enemy.

• • •

Several weeks later, Hermes led Julia onto the roof of the Met, gratified when the elevator doors opened and she gasped.

“It’s beautiful!” she exclaimed, hurrying forward. “I have to admit, I was skeptical about seeing Eliasson’s industrial sculptures on a roof, but this is just perfect.”

It did feel like they were stepping into an enchanted world. Barswith white tablecloths flanked either end of the roof, which was scattered with Olafur Eliasson’s famous sculptures. As Julia had pointed out, they were all industrial in feel, made of fiberglass or metal tubing or sheets of aluminum. Yet they had a poignant beauty that Hermes couldn’t explain. At the center of the roof stood eight dining tables, each adorned with a miniature version of an Eliasson sculpture—an unusual centerpiece, but then, no one at this dinner was impressed by flowers anymore.

“I can’t believe the museum can hold a party like this, out under the open skies!” Julia accepted the champagne that Hermes handed her, still looking around with wide eyes. “What if it rained?”

“I’m sure they had an inclement weather plan,” Hermes remarked, though in truth, the Met neverhadinclement weather for events like this. Such were the perks of boasting a goddess as your major underwriter, even if the Met had no idea who Hera really was.

“Why don’t we go mingle,” Hermes suggested. “This is a great opportunity to meet some of the city’s top art collectors. Speaking of which, how’s the new job?”

“It’s only been a couple of weeks, but I love it so far,” Julia said eagerly. “My boss, Lucy, says I can pitch new exhibitions to her soon. I’ve already found the first artist I want the gallery to carry. An artist upstate who goes by the name of Lantern. He makes these incredible oil paintings, in the style of the Impressionists, but with updated subject matter….”

Hermes smiled despite himself. There was something so contagious about Julia’s excitement, a warmth to her that felt both vulnerable and achingly human. He could see why Ares had been drawn to her.

If only someone would upgrade her wardrobe, he thought with a mournful glance at her black shift dress and black heels. Dressed like that, Julia looked like she was interviewing to be an executive assistant, or worse, attending a funeral. Hermes wondered if she’d watched thatSex and the Cityepisode about the little black dress—though come to think of it, Julia seemed more likely to have gotten the idea from Holly Golightly than Carrie Bradshaw. Either way, someone needed to tell her that one simply didn’t wear black in the summer. At least notamong these sorts of people, in their flowy skirts and vibrant silk dresses.

Hermes stood to attention as a balding man and his diamond-clad wife drew near. Arthur Gordon, founder of a multibillion-dollar hedge fund, and his wife, Allison, a friend of Hera’s.

“Percy, it’s good to see you!” Allison hugged Hermes the way Tara did, with only half her attention. Then she looked quizzically at Julia. “And you are…”