Old Money ꔫ JJ Maybank

one

JUNE 1

Harlow Hadid was three things. Hot as hell. Mean as fuck. And richer than every Kook on the island combined.

She knew it, too. The way her hips swayed as she strutted down the dock, her Louboutin heels clicking against the weathered wood, like she was walking a runway instead of stepping off her father's yacht. She'd walked the runway before too— perks of being the daughter of a billionaire. She wanted to model? She'd model.

The wind off the salty ocean water whipped through her sun-kissed brown hair, and the white dress she wore clung to her curves in all the right places. She didn't fail to notice the attention she was getting from the locals, from fisherman to teenage boys wearing Ralph Lauren.

Let them talk, she thought as she pulled her Prada sunglasses from her purse and slid them on, shielding her eyes from the sun. Plus, they were badass. Let these Southerners wonder what she was doing here, in this godforsaken corner of the world, when she could've been lounging poolside in Ibiza or Paris. Hell, even she was wondering that as the smell of exhaust and fish filled her senses. Gross.

Her dad followed behind her, her mother in tow. Oh her father, ever the businessman. Richard Hadid walked with a confident stride that matched Harlow's, but there was something distinctly more calculated about him. He was the kind of person who negotiated million-dollar deals before his morning coffee. Dressed in a tailored suit that seemed wildly out of place on this little island, he looked like he belonged behind the wheel of a Maserati, not stepping off a yacht in the Outer Banks.

Her mother, Alessandra Hadid, walked with her arm linked to Richard's, her perfectly manicured hands gripping her brand new Louis Vuitton handbag. Even in the sweltering Carolina heat, her makeup was flawless, wrinkles were non existent (thanks to Botox) and her smile was practiced—cool, collected, and condescending, but to Harlow, that was just her mother's resting face.

"Are we sure this is the right place?" Alessandra muttered to her husband, Russian accent clear as day. Her eyes darted around the dock with thinly veiled disdain as they walked towards their car.

"Yes, Honey," Richard replied, only slightly annoyed at his overprivileged spouse. "Just a few months. We're here to finalize the new resort deal and then we're out of here."

Harlow rolled her eyes behind her sunglasses, tuning out her parents' irrelevant discussion. The last thing she needed was to listen to their quarrel about why they were stuck in this backwater hellhole. Her father was trying to expand his empire—something about obtaining land from the Camerons to build another luxury resort. It was all business and bullshit to her.

To her, this was just another summer she didn't get to spend in the Hamptons or sailing around Mykonos with her friends. Instead, she was stuck on this sun-bleached rock with nothing to do except drown herself in overpriced cocktails and screw around with small town 'rich' boys. There was an infinite number of better things to do then rot away in North Carolina of all places.

"Mr. Hadid," the driver interrupted her thoughts, holding the door of the black Range Rover open once more. "We're ready to head to the estate."

Without a word, Harlow slid into the backseat, leaving her parents to climb in after her. The car's leather seats were cool against her skin, and she stretched out, her long legs crossing at the ankle.

As the car pulled away from the docks, she watched the island unfold before her—beaches lined with scruffy surf shacks, sunburnt tourists on rental bicycles, and the occasional flash of wealth that alluded to the exclusive so-called 'Kook' neighbourhoods further inland. It was quaint, sure, but in an annoying sort of way. Yeah, Harlow liked quaint, but not this version. She preferred the Lake Como or Swiss Alps kind of quaint. This was the kind of place humble people came to 'find themselves' or whatever bullshit excuse people used to justify running away from their problems.