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Tatyana’s father’s home was two Upper East Side town houses put together.

Paul had never seen such a thing, only heard about it.

In front of the left town house, a couple of burly security guards in ill-fitting black suits and a woman with a clipboard were gathered at the entrance.

Inside the house, once you got past security, it was as if you’d just entered the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles. Gold leaf everywhere. The walls, mirrors, tables, chairs—all dripped with gold. The chandeliers were crystal, and the floors were marble tile. In the foyer was a giant fountain with a bronze sculpture of a nude woman with water spewing out of her mouth and, strangely, her nipples, too.

The rooms were crowded and loud. Interspersed throughout the crowd were hatchet-faced men in better-fitting black suits with curly earpieces. A proliferation of beautiful women. He recognized a number of people. Not just Wall Street titans but Manhattan VIPs—a couple of movie stars, disappointingly short; a former mayor, also short; a network news anchor. Michael Bublé was going to sing later on, Paul overheard someone say.

He was holding Tatyana’s hand as they entered. He was in a state of shock, of utter disbelief.

How long had he known the woman? Seven months, maybe longer? And the whole time, she was keeping a secret from him. Her father wasn’t just not poor; he was rich . And not just rich, but fabulously so. He was next-level rich.

Tatyana lived like an artist, in a grungy building, in a modest apartment, and her father was . . . had to be . . . a Russian oligarch.

Her parents had “chipped in.” I’ll say.

All those Sunday night dinners she went to, to which he was never invited: now he knew why. She was a billionaire’s daughter, and she hadn’t wanted him to know.

His mind raced. The most she’d said about her parents was that they were “a lot.” Everyone’s parents were a lot.

He and Tatyana had, he thought, shared everything with each other, held nothing back.

He didn’t know what to feel. Hurt? Angry?

Tatyana, he noticed, wasn’t looking at him. Waiters and waitresses were passing out flutes of champagne: Dom Perignon. Tatyana took a long sip, then Paul did, too.

“Want to get something to eat?” she asked him.

“Okay.”

“Hope you’re hungry.”

They passed a glass case, built into the wall like for a museum exhibit, with some jeweled object inside lit by a spotlight, but she didn’t stop to explain what it was.

Tables were heaped with food, including gigantic bowls of glossy black caviar and lobster meat. Men wearing blazers and gold chains were pouring themselves shots of Stoli from the bar. Paul, who was hungry, heaped some caviar on toast points, for himself and Tatyana. “It’s beluga,” Tatyana said.

“I thought beluga was illegal to import.”

She shrugged and gulped hers down. “Wouldn’t stop my father if it were.”

Paul had a bite, then remembered he didn’t love caviar, no matter how much he tried. Fish eggs, after all. He disposed of the toast-and-caviar in a napkin, crumpled it up, and put it on the nearest table.

“So I guess I should just show you this crazy place, gold toilets and all, right? You want to start with the pool?”

“There’s a pool?”

Tatyana took him by the hand and led him down a broad staircase. He suddenly smelled chlorine. An Olympic-size pool was down there, crowded with half-naked people splashing and laughing. It was loud. Everywhere, bottles of Dom Perignon and vodka. A young woman in a swimsuit hooted as she leapt into the pool. A man threw a fully dressed woman into the water. She screamed as she splashed down.

“Is this typical?” Paul asked.

“I guess so. Sometimes. I don’t know.” Tatyana looked around, shook her head disapprovingly.

“Tatyana, sweetie, you never told me about . . . about all this.”

She looked uncomfortable. “Let me introduce you to my father.”