The necklace inside made even the people who had been pretending not to watch abandon the pretense.
A constellation of colorless diamonds curved around a deep black onyx framework so delicate it seemed impossible that metal could support it. At the center rested a blue diamond unlike anything in the public showroom.
Not bright turquoise.
Not pale ice.
A saturated blue with a faint violet undertone.
Eleven point eight carats.
Natural.
Internally flawless.
Naomi had spent fourteen months sourcing the stone through a private dealer in Geneva.
Maison Bellamy had spent nine months designing the setting.
Victor lifted the necklace slightly.
“The final balance is exactly right.”
Naomi stared.
For a few seconds, Elliot disappeared.
The room disappeared.
She saw only the necklace.
And someone else.
Her grandmother.
Naomi was eleven when Evelyn Carter first took her into a jewelry store.
Not Maison Bellamy.
A small independent shop in Baltimore with brass handles and dusty glass.
Evelyn had been a seamstress.
Forty-three years at the same alterations company.
Never wealthy.
Never close.
But she loved jewelry.
Not owning it.
Studying it.
She would stop at department-store counters and explain settings to Naomi.
Prongs.
Bezel.
Pavé.
Clarity.
Cut.
She taught herself from library books because she liked understanding beautiful things she could not afford.
When Naomi turned sixteen, Evelyn gave her a pair of tiny gold earrings.
Nothing expensive.
Naomi knew because she found the receipt years later.
Seventy-nine dollars.
Evelyn had paid in four installments.
On the night before Naomi left for college, her grandmother held one earring beneath the kitchen light and said:
“Never let people convince you beauty belongs to whoever has the most money.”
Naomi laughed.
“Isn’t jewelry literally about money?”
Evelyn smiled.
“That’s price.”
She touched Naomi’s chest.
“Beauty is what something makes you remember.”
Evelyn died when Naomi was twenty-seven.
She never saw the first company Naomi built.
Never saw the acquisition deals.
Never saw her granddaughter on business-magazine covers she would have pretended not to understand while buying three copies.
The custom necklace was for Evelyn.
Not in the sentimental way rich people commissioned monuments to themselves.
Every black feather motif in the design came from a sketch found in one of Evelyn’s old sewing notebooks.
The central stone matched the color of a cheap blue glass brooch she wore on Sundays.
Naomi had given Bellamy’s atelier that brooch as reference.
Victor knew.
Celeste knew.
Nobody else did.
Victor looked at Naomi carefully.
“Would you like to try it?”
Naomi reached toward the velvet case.
Then stopped.
She looked at Elliot.
Whatever softness the necklace had created inside her did not erase the previous ten minutes.
That mattered.
She slowly closed the case.
Victor frowned.
“Something wrong?”
“Yes.”
Elliot’s face tightened.
Naomi turned toward Victor.
“Before I accept the commission, I need something clarified.”
“Of course.”
“Is this how your staff treats every client they assume cannot afford the room?”
No one moved.
Victor looked toward Elliot.
Elliot immediately stepped forward.
“Victor, this is being misrepresented.”
Naomi raised one hand.
“I’m not finished.”