A/N: Hello again! Here's something new for everyone, an AU retelling based off the 1995 film Sabrina starring Harrison Ford (which is based off the 1950s film of the same name starring Audrey Hepburn). I highly recommend both movies if you've never seen them, but it's not necessary to have knowledge of the movies before reading this. Features Simmonsward, FitzSkye, some Fitzsimmons, and lots of not-so-subtle hints of Philinda. Basically everything I wanted team Bus to be. As I have a three month old baby, I can't promise how frequent updates will be, but I will not abandon this! Please review if you feel so inclined!

Special thanks to Daisy/stargazerdaisy for reading the first iteration and giving invaluable advice!

Chapter 1: The House on Dusoris Lane

Once upon a time, on the north shore of Long Island, not far from the bright lights of New York city, there was a large house in which lived a family by the name of Ward.

The Ward family was comprised of three members. There was the matriarch, Melinda May Ward, who married the much older John Ward when she was the tender age of twenty-five. It was a union made with some contention, as her first generation Chinese-American parents had very strong opinions on whom their only daughter should marry. Seeing John Ward's love for their daughter soon convinced them, however; his small fortune did not hurt things either. Melinda was naturally graceful, poised, refined. She seemed born for high society. Upon her husband's untimely death during a golf tour of Scotland, she inherited his corporation and despite very little business experience saw growth in her first year as CEO.

Her eldest stepson was named Grant, who with his chiseled features and athletic build appeared at first glance to be suited only for the cover of magazines, and offers were made to that effect beginning his freshman year of high school. This impression he had proven to be incorrect when he graduated from Yale at 19 and, with the business acumen acquired there, turned a hundred-million-dollar family software development business into some "serious money".

Lastly and most of all, there was Leopold, better known by his middle name of Fitz. He was the younger son, as bright as he was boyishly handsome, possessing both a disarming smile and an affinity for electronics. He had attended and graduated with degrees from MIT and CalTech and had spent a semester abroad at Oxford, but had so far put none of his education to career use. He spent many of his days in his quarters, crafting and inventing, and most of his nights in the company of a parade of women whose roster seemed to fluctuate constantly.

The Ward family was known for two things in equal measure. Firstly, for the family business, but secondly and just as much for the parties they gave.

Few people attempted parties to their caliber anymore, and fewer still succeeded in throwing an event that could even be considered comparable; and what better place to throw such parties than on the grounds of their very own mansion, which was so elegant and sprawling it was very nearly a castle.

The Ward estate was well kept. There were servants within the mansion, and servants outside it. Boatmen for the boats, six crews of gardeners who between them cared for the grounds and the solarium; a tree surgeon was kept on retainer. Special attendants were assigned for both the indoor and outdoor tennis courts. The same was done for the indoor pool and the manmade lake. A roster of three mechanics rotated eight hour shifts attending to the fleet of vehicles in the family's possession, and over the garage lived a chauffeur by the name of Coulson, transferred many years ago from California with a Rolls-Royce and later joined by a young niece. The Rolls-Royce was named Lola; the niece was named Jemma.

Unlike her uncle, Jemma was not from California, but from England. Her mother had been a lifelong Londoner, and her father -her uncle's younger brother- had met her during a post-college trip abroad. He had not discovered much about himself, so her father said, but he had discovered his future wife, so the trip could hardly have been a wash. The pair had been dead and Jemma an orphan since she was eleven years old. She had been in her Uncle Phil's care for thirteen years.

She came into his guardianship during his ninth year of employment by the Wards. Now twenty-four, she could still vividly recall her first glimpse of the estate. Visions of Pemberley and Elizabeth Bennett had at once sprung to mind, and she could vividly imagine a Colin Firth emerging from the large stone fountain as they rounded the drive. As she first explored the expertly decorated halls of the mansion, she stumbled across him. Leopold Fitz Ward. Her Darcy.

She sighed and leaned further into the rough tree branch as she recalled her first meeting with Fitz. They were close in age, he being a boy of only twelve when they met, himself mourning the loss of his father (his mother had predeceased him when Fitz was much younger). His stepmother had become his legal guardian, to his disappointment. True, she had been the only mother he'd ever known and had been exceedingly kind to him, but he had hoped his brother would take him on and he could go live in the city, which he had only been allowed to visit on special occasions. The pair bonded over their unfortunate circumstances, but it had been his kind, open face, which emoted genuinely as she relayed her own sad tale, that left a lasting effect; an indelible mark she could not scrub out, even as years passed and their friendship waned.

She sought his face out now, perched as she was in the grand old oak tree that stood at the entrance of the back gardens. Though one man of many in a sea of white jackets, Jemma spotted Fitz quickly, his smile unmistakeable even from a distance. That smile, the smile that filled her nights and occupied her daydreams, was currently directed at an exquisite redhead who danced with him; she was draped in bridal white, and Jemma hoped the choice of dress was not prescient.

"Jemma," a voice from below her called. She glanced downward to see her Uncle Phil standing at the trunk of the tree, looking upwards.

"That explains the disappointment I heard," she said in acknowledgment.

Phil ignored her jibe and said, "Jemma, come down. You need to finish packing."

She heard a hardy, handsome laugh reach her from the dance floor. "Oh. She made him laugh."

Her uncle sighed. "I wonder if Paris is far enough away."

Ah, yes. Paris, Jemma thought sardonically, showing none of the enthusiasm a woman her age and status ought for her impending travels. Mrs. Ward, who bucked social conventions by considering Phil something of a confidant, had arranged an internship for Jemma at a Parisian fashion magazine. Jemma had not read the magazine herself, but apparently it was rather a to-do, if the ecstatic reactions from the other hired help were any indication. All she could think of was how long she would be away from Fitz, a thought she dreaded. "Why pack when I'm only going to come home in a few days time?"

Phil, his patience running thin, sighed. "You will do no such thing when Mrs. Ward has used her connections to get you this trip. Now, please, get out of the tree?" He only needed to repeat himself once and then stalked away toward the garage, knowing Jemma would soon follow; she had never been able to disobey her uncle outright, despite her best rebellious efforts.

She descended the tree expertly, as familiar with its branches as she was her own home, and after a few minutes she was low enough to make the drop to the ground safely. She landed at the base just as Fitz was walking by, and at once her heart leapt at the apparent serendipity of it all.

Her sudden appearance caught Fitz off guard at first, but he soon relaxed, his smile once again returning. "Oh, it's just you Jemma," he said, relieved. "I thought I heard someone." Then he walked away. Even as the distance between them grew, Jemma could clearly see the outline of two champagne glasses underneath the back of his jacket. A bottle of champagne was tucked under his arm.

He was going to the solarium, Jemma thought wistfully. If throwing grand parties was Melinda's tradition, this was Fitz's: he'd become acquainted with a beautiful woman during the revelry, and after much dancing and several drinks, he'd smile that particular smile and whisper certain words in the lucky woman's ear and without fail, the pair would sneak away separately to convene in the solarium. There they would have more privacy, the stars and flowers the only witnesses to their affection. It was all terribly romantic.

"No," Jemma said sadly to his disappearing figure, "it was nobody."

In a swarm of white jackets and glitzy ball gowns, Grant was the only one in black. Anyone else would have been regarded with disdain, but not he; he got a pass from all of the guests for this perceived faux pax, even if his stepmother did frown upon seeing him.

He had excused himself to the fringe of the party, occupied, as always, by work. Currently, he was on the phone with Robert who managed his stock and investment portfolio, talking him down from buying into a budding television network that aired low-brow fare for the 18-49 demo.

"I don't want to buy anymore networks this year," he reiterated sternly. "There's never anything good on." Not that he had time to watch television. "Look. The offer expired at ten. It's ten-oh-eight, Robert." And with that, he ended the call.

Grant hoped to make it out of the party within the hour, but that was no easy task. He may not have been the host, but he was the evening's financier and every guest knew it. A few acquaintances commented on him leaving so soon, but he dismissed their concerns by saying he wanted to check on the Tokyo market before it closed, and that appeased them.

He had nearly made it to the oak at the entrance when his stepmother cornered him.

"Melinda."

"Grant." She put one perfectly manicured hand on her hip. "Andrea told me you fired her son."

So he had. "He's an idiot." He replied as if that was all the reason needed. In his mind, it was.

"She's one of your father's oldest friends."

"Well, good thing he's not here to see what a disappointment I am. Taking his company global? Increasing our families net worth three-fold in less than fifteen years? I'm truly a failure."

"I wish you wouldn't talk about money at parties. It's vulgar."

"The only reason we can afford parties like this is because of money. And we don't get money by employing imbeciles, no matter how close to the family they are." He turned to go, but Melinda caught him by the crook of his arm.

"You can't go now," she protested. "You'll miss my fireworks."

"I've got to drop something off in Fitz's room. Can you let him know his suspenders are in his closet once he surfaces from this week's 'love of his life'?" He waited until His stepmother nodded, then kissed her cheek, their brief spat forgotten as quickly as it had started. "Goodnight."

Jemma had packed, albeit haphazardly, and now sat on the edge of her bed beside her open suitcase. In her hand was a half-drunk bottle of cooking sherry. All the good alcohol in the kitchen had gone to the party's bar, so she had had to make do with what she could find when the chef was not looking. It wasn't particularly good for drinking, but it gave her a buzz, and she was after that more than flavor at this point.

From her bed, she saw a light in the mansion turn on. It was the light in Fitz's room. Emboldened by the alcohol, she stood and tiptoed her way to the front door of the tiny apartment she shared with her uncle. Unfortunately, there was only one exit, and to get to it required her to pass the living room where he currently sat reading.

She made a go of it and was, or course, caught.

"Jemma," he chided, "you've spent more of your life in that tree than you have on solid ground." This was all said without having to look up from his novel.

She didn't respond, but paused in the hallway, her body still squared with the door only a few feet away; she did not face him.

"There is more to you than this obsession," he added, turned the page, and said no more.

Jemma did not consider it an obsession. She loved Fitz, had loved him since childhood. He was sown into her soul. Who was she if she did not love him? But she did not respond and quietly left the apartment. She turned her eyes to the main house, to the light in the window that beckoned to her, and walked toward it with purpose.

He never disparaged his brother's genius. Grant hoped that by being even a little encouraging, it would inspire Fitz to channel his gifts into the family business, but he had only taken the elder brother's kindness as confirmation to continue with his gadgetry. Normally, Grant did not mind. The business was in capable hands (his own) and the constant inventing kept Fitz out of trouble-and by trouble, he meant the tabloids. It was only moments like this, when Grant stubbed his toe over some contraption on the floor of Fitz's walk-in closet, that he was less than impressed with how his little brother chose to spend his days.

"Dammit, Fitz," he muttered, flexing the wounded toe in his shoe.

He heard the click of the door opening. Fitz had finished with the female guest sooner than expected.

"I came here to say goodbye."

It was not Fitz, but a feminine voice that spoke. Grant made a move to exit the closet.

"Don't come out," the voice ordered, though the command was still spoken with a level of timidity. "If you come out, I'll never get through this." He heard the speaker intake a large breath before continuing. "I leave for Paris tomorrow, and I'll be gone a long time. I don't expect you to notice I'm gone; you haven't noticed me while I was here. Not that I'm surprised over that. What is there to notice?" The woman let out a sad chuckle. "But I think I know you better than anyone else, and for what it's worth, just know that someone very far away is thinking of you. So, if there's anything I can ever do for you..." Her voice trailed off, her spiel finished.

Grant stepped out of the closet. He recognized the speaker as the niece of the family's chauffeur. Jemma, her name was. He noted she was a pretty girl, if a little plain, but that could easily be chalked up to the long brown hair that hung flat past her shoulders, or her gray calf-length skirt paired with a simple knit sweater. It was no wonder Fitz never noticed her as she claimed. The girl was attractive, but not glamorous, and unfortunately his brother had the attention span of a goldfish when women were the subject. He needed a little sparkle to keep his interest.

"Could you bring me one of those little Eiffel Tower paper weights?"

What he'd meant as a joke to diffuse an awkward situation for both of them did not land. Instead of laughing, Jemma's hazel eyes widened. The ivory skin of her face flushed pink as she muttered "Oh, God," before fleeing, the pounding of her footsteps down the hall disguised by the boom of fireworks.

She ran as fast as her feet would carry her as the sky seemed to explode above her, thinking and caring not at all whether any party guests witnessed her escape.

Jemma arrived in Paris on a Sunday. On Monday, she had an interview for an internship at a fashion magazine called Marie Claire. She was only slightly familiar with the publication. She'd studied molecular biophysics and biochemistry at Yale, and fashion magazines hardly fell within the parameters of required reading.

As she waited for her interview, she glanced around the office. It was decorated in a stunning minimal decor and she felt out of place by comparison. She was certain her inexperience showed, literally worn on her very unfashionable blouse sleeve. A long, lithe model stalked past her and she sank back into her chair, wishing to be absorbed into the white leather.

"Jemma?" a heavily accented female voice called before she could succumb to her embarrassment. A woman with short, curly brown hair and kind eyes had beckoned to her with a smile. She stood and went to her.

"Welcome to Paris, Jemma," she said. "My name is Angeline. You speak no French, yes?"

"No."

Angeline brightened. "No?"

"I mean, yes. I mean..." she stumbled over the negative in her head and felt her face go hot with blushing. "Can you repeat the question?"

It soon became clear that this meeting was not so much an interview as it was an introduction. After speaking briefly with Angeline, Jemma was promptly handed over to her assistant, Martine. Unlike her boss, Martine glanced over Jemma and clicked her tongue once in disapproval, but seemed determined to make do with what she was given. Jemma was instantly put to work reorganizing the samples closet, a task that took her the entirety of the day. She was given similar busy work every weekday, doing the more menial tasks Martine considered beneath her.

Three weeks into the internship, Angeline invited Jemma on a walk. They had just hours before completed a photo shoot, and Jemma had been all thumbs during it. She misunderstood Martine at every turn and left a model in a predicament when she accidentally stepped on and ruined her eye contacts. She'd nearly derailed the entire shoot, and attributed it to his inherent gentlemanliness that the photographer did not raise his voice at her in frustration.

While he had withheld, Martine had given her a verbal dressing down that was mostly French, punctuated by the occasional English curse. Jemma, who spoke Mandarin and Spanish but had never imagined needing to know French, had picked up enough of the language by this point to have the good sense to look contrite.

"Don't worry for Martine," Angeline encouraged as they strolled. "I tortured her, and now she tortures you!" This Angeline said with a light laugh, as if the entire situation were humorous. "Work hard, Jemma, and someday you will have someone of your own to torture." It was a strange thing to aspire toward, but Jemma found herself working harder than ever in the days that followed, and by working hard found she had little time to think of Fitz during the day, despite her promise. A promise she had accidentally made to Grant, but a promise nonetheless.

Occupied though her thoughts were during the day, nothing could keep the thoughts at bay at night.

When she had been away for a month, she sent her uncle an email. She told him she was lonely. She told him she felt silly and out of place. She asked to come home. To help her case, she made an effort not to mention Fitz, but his name must have slipped through more than she realized. Uncle Phil responded within the hour.

I am glad to hear that the job is going well, although this Martine character concerns me. Angeline sounds very fine, though I expect nothing less from a friend of Mrs. Ward's.

You mustn't be so hard on yourself, sweetie. I'm sure that not everyone in Paris thinks you're an idiot. You haven't met them all, for one thing. Please enjoy yourself as much as you can and try not to think about... you-know-who.

She read his reply three times over, disheartened by every word, and did not answer.