Perfectly Incompatible

Serena Harcourt had been pretending not to look at Sebastian Beaumont for seventeen minutes. She knew the exact number because Chloe Bennett had whispered it into her ear with the grave solemnity other people reserved for announcing a death. “Seventeen,” Chloe repeated, balancing a champagne flute between her fingers. “And before you ask, yes, I’m counting.” Serena kept her eyes fixed on the illuminated display case in front of her. At its center lay the necklace she had spent six months designing, the one Harcourt & Co. had agreed to unveil tonight without naming its creator. Platinum, tiny diamonds, and an irregular line of emeralds seemed to float over black velvet. “I’m not looking at anyone.” “Of course not. And I came to the Beaumont gala for academic enrichment. If one more person mentions that Sebastian is nine yards away, you may not survive the evening.” Serena ignored her. Maison Beaumont’s annual gala was being held that year in one of the private reception rooms on the family’s Greenwich estate. The Beaumonts and Harcourts had spent two generations sharing nights like this—weddings, galas, funerals—without either family ever calling it friendship. Men in the room had last names stamped across buildings. Women were accustomed to appearing in magazines. There was enough money gathered beneath the crystal chandeliers to buy several blocks of Manhattan. Serena had grown up inside that world, which was why she knew how easily a person could disappear into a label. Dominic Harcourt’s daughter. Oliver’s sister. Little Serena. That last one was the worst when it came from Sebastian. Tonight, more than usual, she had a reason not to want to feel little beside anyone. The necklace in the case had not begun in a boardroom or inside Harcourt’s design department. It had started six months ago at two in the morning on a coffee-stained sheet of paper. Serena had sketched an uneven progression of stones because she was tired of the flawless symmetry Dominic liked to call timeless. Vivienne had found the sketch, asked two questions, and—without asking anyone’s permission—secured Serena access to the prototype workshop. Dominic discovered the piece weeks later. His first question had been which collection it might belong to. His second, which campaign could be built around it. Serena had asked for one thing in return. “If people like it, I want to know they liked the design.” Her father had looked at her as though she had voluntarily thrown away an advantage no reasonable person would refuse. “Your last name isn’t a trap, Serena.” “I don’t want it to be the answer either.” They had not argued again, which in the Harcourt family usually meant the argument was still very much alive. So as guests drifted around the display case, every comment became a private test. Serena heard a buyer say the necklace felt too young for Harcourt. She heard an editor answer that youth was why she wanted to photograph it. An older jeweler criticized the irregular emerald placement, and Vivienne murmured that some men confused tradition with fear. Serena stored away every reaction. The good ones and the bad ones. She needed both. Oliver joined them with the drink he had been handed at the entrance still in his hand. “Still spying on your own necklace?” he asked. “Publicly, it isn’t mine.” “That doesn’t stop you from watching it like a mother on the first day of kindergarten.” Oliver kept talking, but Serena noticed his eyes cut toward Sebastian before returning to her. “What?” she asked. “Nothing.” “You’re terrible at saying ‘nothing.’” Oliver smiled and wandered toward the bar. Serena did not understand the look until several minutes later. Sebastian stood near a column, speaking with his father and two French executives. Dark suit. White shirt. Not a gesture wasted. Sebastian never seemed to need to claim space for it to belong to him. Serena had loved him first in the childish way girls loved older boys who treated them kindly. He had been eighteen, she had been fourteen, and his patience had felt enough like destiny that she had not known the difference. At sixteen, she had loved him with embarrassment, because that was when she began to understand the difference between wanting someone to take care of you and wanting him to touch you. At twenty, she had promised herself she was over him. The promise was not holding up well. It was ridiculous to be twenty years old and still react to the way a man held a champagne glass. Yet there she was, stomach tight, attention in pieces, measuring the distance between them without meaning to. Near the bar, Liam Kingsley’s laugh rose briefly above the music. Serena did not need to turn around to know he had already found a way to be unbearable. “Your grandmother’s looking for you,” Chloe said. Vivienne Harcourt approached with one hand resting lightly on the cane she used more as a style statement than a necessity. She wore midnight blue and enough antique diamonds to fund a small house. “There you are,” Vivienne said. “Dominic is about thirty seconds away from telling someone the necklace is ‘a creation of the next generation.’ If we don’t intervene, he’ll credit the entire design department by dessert.” Serena’s stomach tightened. “We agreed my name wouldn’t be mentioned tonight.” “You agreed that with your father. I don’t recall signing anything.” Vivienne offered her an arm. Serena hesitated. She did not want an announcement. Not yet. If people learned a Harcourt had designed the necklace before praising it, she would never know how much of the reaction belonged to the piece and how much belonged to the name attached to it. Vivienne seemed to read her mind. “Come on. I’m not going to betray you. I only want you to hear what people say when they think you have nothing to do with it.” That, Serena could handle. They moved toward the display. Dominic Harcourt was speaking with a group of European partners in the exact tone he used whenever he wanted to impress someone without appearing to try. Oliver stood beside him, polished and amused, as though he had not spent his entire life preparing to inherit a company Serena suspected he wanted less than everyone assumed. “It’s the most interesting piece in the collection,” a woman from the committee said. “Younger. Less obedient.” Vivienne smiled without looking at Serena. “I like her.” “You like anyone who criticizes Dad.” “Not anyone. Only the people who are right.” Serena was about to answer when she felt someone step beside her. “What do you think?” The voice stopped her before she could prepare for it. Sebastian. He had come up without her noticing. Up close, he smelled clean and faintly woody, a scent she knew far too well. His attention was on the necklace. “About what?” “The piece.” “I assumed this room had enough experts without needing my opinion.” The corner of his mouth moved. “You’ve never needed anyone to ask for it.” Serena finally turned toward him. It was a mistake. Not because Sebastian had changed. If anything, that was the problem. He still looked like the man she remembered—controlled, elegant, impossible to read. What had changed was the way he looked at her. He did not glance past her in search of Oliver. He did not reach out to muss her hair. He did not ask about school with the fond, indulgent tone people used with a younger sister. His gaze dropped once, briefly, to her dress and returned to her face with enough deliberation to knock her pulse off rhythm. Sebastian seemed to notice that too. “What?” she asked. “Nothing.” “You’re a terrible liar.” “I don’t usually need to lie.” “Then you should practice.” Vivienne made a quiet, satisfied sound and walked away using an excuse no rational person could possibly have believed. Serena turned back to the necklace. “It’s beautiful,” Sebastian said. “That’s it?” “No.” He stepped closer to the glass. “The setting looks delicate, but it isn’t. The emeralds aren’t arranged to look perfect. They make your eye follow the line.” His gaze narrowed slightly. “There’s something uncomfortable about it.” Serena looked at him. “Uncomfortable?” “In a good way.” “There is no good way to be uncomfortable.” “There is when a piece makes a room full of people who buy beauty for a living stop and look twice.” The compliment landed deeper than it should have. “Who designed it?” Sebastian asked. Serena looked away. “I don’t know.” “Now you’re the one lying.” “Maybe you should spend less time getting good at spotting everyone else’s lies.” Sebastian watched her for a beat too long. “Serena.” The way he said her name altered her breathing. “What?” “Look at me.” She already was. This time, she did not break eye contact. And that was when she understood. Something had shifted between them. Maybe not tonight. Maybe it had been changing for months and neither of them had wanted to name it. But Sebastian was looking at her in a way she had imagined too many times to misread now. Desire. Not overwhelming. Not uncontrolled. Worse. Contained. “I need air,” she said. She walked away before he could answer. Serena crossed two reception rooms, dodged three conversations, and slipped through the side door into the Beaumont greenhouse. It had been one of her favorite places since childhood: glass panes, black iron, citrus trees, and a narrow bench bordered by jasmine. Inside, the gala faded into a distant hum. She planted both hands on the edge of a potting table and closed her eyes. Ridiculous. She was twenty years old. She had made it into the preliminary round of a major fellowship. Her necklace was earning real praise from people who did not know it was hers. She was not going to let one look from Sebastian Beaumont turn her back into a sixteen-year-old girl. The greenhouse door opened behind her. Serena knew who it was before she turned. Sebastian stepped inside. The glass door clicked softly shut at his back. And when he looked at her, there was no one else in the room for either of them to pretend he was looking at.