From Polo Fields to Private Estates: The Exclusive World of Hamptons Summer House Life
There are two kinds of people in the Hamptons: those who own homes, and those who own the people who own homes.
The first group drinks Whispering Angel by the pool and dabbles in "hobby" real estate investments. The second group? They drink Adamas Cognac in backlit libraries, playing chess with multimillion-dollar estates, making sure the first group stays exactly where they belong—grateful, envious, and slightly drunk.
And no one plays the game better than Jake Harrington and Ava St. James.
The Kingmaker and His Challenger
Jake Harrington is a walking, talking hedge fund with a good tailor. The CEO of a multi-billion-dollar investment bank, Jake has flipped more real estate than a griddle at a Montauk brunch spot. He doesn’t just buy houses—he acquires power.
Ava St. James is his equal, his rival, and possibly his future third wife, if he ever learns to settle down. A self-made real estate broker with half a billion in Hamptons properties under her belt, Ava has a smile that closes deals and a Rolodex that makes hedge fund managers sweat.
For years, they’ve been circling each other like two apex predators at an overpriced oyster bar, taking turns outbidding each other on waterfront estates and occasionally flirting over Negronis at The American Hotel.
But this summer, their game is about to change.
Enter the Wild Card: Dr. Lillian Russo
Dr. Lillian Russo is the Hamptons’ most sought-after plastic surgeon—which is to say, she is responsible for 90% of the “I just got a great night’s sleep” faces at Polo Hamptons.
She is also holding a secret that could cost Jake everything.
A year ago, during a very late, very expensive night at The Surf Lodge, Lillian and Jake had a moment. One thing led to another, and sometime between the second bottle of Adamas Cognac and the sunrise, Jake made a very uncharacteristic promise:
"You should open that wellness retreat you always talk about. I’ll invest. Whatever it takes."
Then, in true Jake Harrington fashion, he forgot about it.
Lillian, however, did not.
And now, just as Ava is pushing through a $60 million real estate deal that will make her summer, Jake is about to sign the paperwork—killing any chance of Lillian’s wellness retreat ever happening.
Which is why she’s about to make sure he regrets it.
The Power Play at Harrington Estate
Jake’s oceanfront estate in Sagaponack is the kind of place that makes realtors cry with joy—all floor-to-ceiling glass, infinity pools, and just enough “rustic charm” to pretend it wasn’t built for tax purposes.
He and Ava are celebrating their latest deal, sipping Adamas Cognac in the kind of crystal glasses that could buy you a used BMW.
And that’s when Lillian arrives.
Dressed in chic, all-white like an avenging angel with a private practice, she walks past the staff, straight into the library, and places an envelope on the mahogany desk.
Jake, ever the seasoned negotiator, doesn’t even flinch. “Lillian,” he says smoothly, taking another sip of cognac. “If you wanted a house call, I could have scheduled you in.”
Ava leans against the bar, watching the unfolding chaos like someone who already knows the plot twist but wants to see how it plays out.
Lillian slides the envelope closer. “You promised me that investment.”
Jake smirks, because that’s what men who think they control the game do before they realize they’re the ones being played.
Then he opens the envelope.
Inside: photos. Not of their night together—Lillian isn’t an amateur—but of Jake, very publicly, very drunkenly signing an informal agreement on a bar napkin.
Ava actually laughs.
Jake, for the first time in a long, long time, is caught off guard.
The Stalemate
Ava takes the glass of Adamas Cognac from Jake’s hand and raises it in a toast.
“To men who make promises they don’t keep,” she says, smirking at Lillian.
Lillian meets her gaze, then turns to Jake. “You either make this right, or these photos find their way to your board members.”
Jake swirls the remaining cognac in his glass, thinking. It’s not about the money—it never is. It’s about control.
And for the first time in years, he doesn’t have it.
The Lesson? In the Hamptons, Every Deal is Personal.
By the time the night is over:
And as the sun rises over Sagaponack’s billion-dollar coastline, one thing is clear:
In the Hamptons, real estate isn’t just about houses. It’s about who owns the players inside them.
And if you think it’s just business?
Pour yourself another Adamas Cognac.
Because you’re already losing.