Perfectly Incompatible

KINGSLEY, OF COURSE

“You shouldn’t have followed me.”

The words came out with less conviction than Serena intended.

Sebastian stayed by the greenhouse door, warm light catching the planes of his face.

“I didn’t follow you.”

“What a coincidence. You also needed to admire lemon trees at midnight.”

“I was looking for somewhere without people.”

“Then you chose badly.”

“So it seems.”

For a moment, the silence between them changed shape.

“Do you remember the summer Oliver broke the garage window?” Sebastian asked suddenly.

Serena blinked.

“You broke it.”

“Oliver kicked the ball.”

“And you decided the logical response was to stop it with a chair.”

Sebastian smiled.

“And I ended up with my hand bandaged for a week.”

“A family tragedy.”

“You used the bandage to draw a bird on me.”

Something tightened softly in Serena’s chest.

“It was terrible.”

“It was recognizable.”

“That doesn’t make it good.”

“No. But you already drew like that.”

Serena lowered her gaze toward the portfolio on the table.

For years, she had wanted this: to be alone with Sebastian and feel as though he actually saw her. Now that it was happening, she discovered her fantasies had skipped over the part where breathing became difficult.

“The necklace is yours,” he said.

It was not a question.

Serena leaned one hip against the potting table.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You always drew like that.”

“I was eight the first time you saw my sketches.”

“Twelve.”

She frowned.

“You remember?”

“I remember a lot of things.”

Sebastian moved one step closer. Serena held her ground.

“Why didn’t you put your name on it?”

“Because I wanted to know if people liked it before they knew who made it.”

“That’s smart.”

“My father calls it insecurity.”

“Your father calls anything he can’t control insecurity.”

Serena arched a brow.

“That sounded dangerously critical coming from a Beaumont.”

“Don’t repeat it.”

She smiled before she could stop herself. Sebastian did too. It was barely there, but it broke something open between them.

Serena looked down at her hands.

He was close now. Not close enough to touch her, but close enough that the distance felt deliberate.

“Sebastian…”

The greenhouse door flew open.

“Julian, if you’re hiding in here to avoid talking to Whitmore’s daughter, I swear I’m going to—”

Liam Kingsley stopped mid-sentence.

Serena closed her eyes for one second.

Of course.

If the universe had a sense of humor, Liam Kingsley was one of its favorite recurring jokes.

They had known each other since Serena was seventeen, when they met at a charity tournament at the Greenwich club. Liam had watched her straighten place cards at the registration table and asked, with complete seriousness, whether she planned to reorganize the guests alphabetically too. Serena had told him she would start by removing him from the property.

Since then, they had refined the system.

He knew which tone made her sound uptight even to herself. She knew where to strike when she wanted to remind him that charm was not the same thing as merit.

With Sebastian, she never had to manufacture a version of herself. The problem with Sebastian was different. He had spent years clinging to an old version of her.

Liam wore his tuxedo with his tie already loosened and a drink in one hand. Camille Prescott appeared behind his shoulder, immaculate in an ivory dress.

Liam looked at Serena.

Then Sebastian.

Then the space between them.

His grin widened.

“Well. Very botanical.”

“Go away, Kingsley,” Serena said.

“Always a pleasure, Harcourt.”

Sebastian turned slightly.

“You’re looking for Julian.”

“He owes me money.”

“That doesn’t narrow it down much,” Serena said.

Liam pointed at her with his glass.

“Look at that. A joke. Must be a special night.”

Camille rested a hand on Liam’s arm.

“Sorry. He thinks being unbearable qualifies as a personality.”

“Don’t apologize for him,” Serena said. “You’d never have time for anything else.”

Camille smiled, more entertained than offended.

Liam looked delighted.

That was one of the many things Serena hated about him: it was nearly impossible to embarrass him. Every verbal hit only seemed to make him enjoy himself more.

“We’ve known each other since you had braces,” Liam said. “You should’ve built up a tolerance by now.”

“And you should’ve developed a second personality trait besides talking.”

“I have several. Camille can confirm.”

“Liam,” Camille murmured, without much real disapproval.

Serena briefly considered throwing a potted plant at him.

Sebastian was watching her with a strange expression. Not quite amusement. Not irritation either. Something quieter. More controlled.

“Can we go?” Camille asked Liam.

“One second.”

Liam’s attention shifted to the table behind Serena.

Her portfolio.

She had completely forgotten it was there. She had come straight from Parsons to the gala, and Vivienne had insisted she leave her things in the greenhouse instead of carrying them all night.

Liam reached toward it.

“Is that Sterling?”

Serena moved first and snapped the portfolio shut before his fingers touched it.

“Don’t.”

“I wasn’t touching it.”

“You were half a second away.”

“Impressive precision. Parsons teaching telepathy now?”

“Columbia should consider teaching manners.”

“They weren’t in the course catalog.”

Sebastian looked between them.

“The Sterling Fellowship?”

Serena nodded.

“I made the preliminary round.”

Something shifted in Sebastian’s expression. Pride. Or close enough to it that she noticed.

“That’s a big deal.”

“I know.”

Liam tilted his head.

“What’s your proposal?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re the competition.”

He set down his drink and pulled his phone from his pocket. A few taps later, he held up an email bearing Columbia’s seal and Sterling’s name.

“Then we have a problem,” he said. “I’m in too.”

Annoyance hit Serena on instinct.

“Naturally.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That no prestigious institution on earth seems capable of resisting a Kingsley.”

His smile faded by a fraction.

“Interesting, coming from a Harcourt.”

There it was.

The old war.

Dominic never spoke about Graham Kingsley without a level of courtesy so polished it sounded more insulting than an insult. Graham answered with smiles and pointed comments about “tradition” whenever Harcourt announced an expansion.

Serena and Liam had inherited the tension without fully understanding where it began. By now it was almost a shared language: trust nothing, concede nothing, never let the other family look as though it had won.

Serena knew it was ridiculous.

She also knew logic became mostly useless whenever Liam smiled like that.

She folded her arms.

“I submitted an actual project.”

“So did I.”

“Anything in it besides your last name?”

Liam stepped closer.

Camille sighed.

“And they’re off.”

“Technically, she started it,” Liam said. “I’m just keeping an accurate record.”

“You’re twenty-two,” Camille reminded him.

Liam opened his mouth, then glanced toward Sebastian.

“And she’s twenty. I thought age was important to you.”

Sebastian went still.

The comment had been delivered lightly, but Serena knew where it landed.

“Liam,” Camille said, sharper this time.

Liam looked at Sebastian. The grin disappeared a little more, and for once, he did not push.

“Fine. I’m leaving before someone accuses me of ruining a profound conversation about horticulture.”

As he passed Serena, he leaned slightly toward the portfolio.

“Although that sketch…”

She pulled it against her chest.

Liam stopped.

His eyes dropped to the corner of a sheet protruding from the folder. Only a small geometric drawing was visible.

His expression changed.

“Wait.”

“No.”

“Harcourt.”

“Kingsley.”

“That design was in the anonymous Sterling preselection.”

Serena froze.

For once, Liam looked completely serious. It was almost worse than the teasing. He was looking at the sketch as if he had just discovered there was something behind her application besides a famous last name and a sharp mouth.

Serena would have preferred mockery.

It was easier to fight the caricature of Liam Kingsley than a man capable of recognizing what she had made.

“That was you,” he said.

“What was me?”

“The luxury pavilion proposal.”

Memory supplied the recording from Sterling’s open review session. University teams had publicly critiqued anonymous submissions from other applicants.

Serena had not recognized the voice at first.

Later, she had.

Pretty.

Expensive.

Useless.

Three words.

Liam Kingsley.

Her irritation transformed into something cleaner. More satisfying.

War.

“Oh,” she said slowly. “So you’re the asshole.”

Camille coughed into her hand to hide a laugh.

Sebastian looked at Liam with new interest.

Liam, far from offended, smiled.

He opened his mouth, as though he might add something about that old critique.

Serena waited.

For one second, he looked like he might explain himself.

He didn’t.

It was the first time she had ever seen Liam hesitate before landing the final blow.

“And you’re the designer,” he said.

Serena didn’t look away.

“Yes.”

His smile returned, slower this time.

“This just got a lot more interesting.”