Four Of A Kind

Chapter 122: [3.24] Misplaced Priorities

Vivienne’s perfectly manicured finger traced along a tablet screen with surgical precision as she explained the seating chart crisis. Something about the Lumière CEO needing to sit away from his ex-wife’s new husband but near enough to the Vogue editor to discuss their upcoming feature spread.

I nodded at appropriate intervals while approximately sixty percent of my brain processed what had just happened with Sabrina.

Her thumb on my lip.

Her fingers in my hair.

Her voice saying things about warmth and seeing people.

The remaining forty percent of my brain tried to decipher Vivienne’s color-coding system, which appeared to require a PhD in chromatic theory and possibly a security clearance.

“Are you listening?” Vivienne asked, her purple eyes narrowing.

“Table four needs to be reorganized because the Chanel representative can’t sit with the Prada team, and someone named Marcus needs to be separated from someone named Jennifer because of a social media incident from last summer that involved a yacht, a stolen dog, and tequila.”

Her eyebrows raised slightly. “Very good.”

“I pay attention.”

“When you choose to.”

I tapped the seating chart where a cluster of names appeared in alarming red. “These people are the problem?”

“Yes. Mother insists they attend because they control access to the Korean market, but their CEO made inappropriate comments about me at the last gala.”

“Define inappropriate.”

Her mouth tightened. “He suggested I would be more suited to modeling the clothes than running the company.”

I considered making this man disappear. Feasibility: low. Satisfaction: high.

“Put him at table nine,” I said. “Next to Mrs. Ashworth.”

Vivienne’s eyes widened. “The widow who owns forty percent of East Coast media outlets?”

“And eats men like him for breakfast. I know her from the bar. She’ll spend the entire evening explaining why his business model is outdated while dropping casual references to people she knows at his company. He’ll be looking for exit strategies within twenty minutes.”

A tiny smile touched the corner of Vivienne’s mouth.

“That’s… surprisingly strategic.”

“I’m occasionally useful.”

“Occasionally,” she agreed, her tone lighter than before. She made the adjustment on her tablet. “What about the Bergdorf buyer? She requested a seat near the stage.”

And so it went for the next forty-five minutes. Vivienne moved names around like chess pieces while I offered suggestions based on my limited knowledge of fashion industry politics and extensive knowledge of human pettiness.

Eventually, we had a functional seating chart that wouldn’t trigger any immediate corporate warfare.

Vivienne set her tablet down with a small, satisfied exhale. “Adequate.”

Coming from her, this was essentially a standing ovation.

She leaned back in her chair, her perfect posture slipping for perhaps the second time since I’d met her. “What was the emergency with Sabrina?”

I froze.

“Why do you ask?”

“Because my sister rarely uses the word ’emergency’ unless someone is actively bleeding, and because when I called you seventeen times, you didn’t answer.”

“It was personal.”

“Personal,” she repeated, turning the word over like examining a suspicious object. “And required privacy.”

“Yes.”

“With my most secretive sister.”

“Also yes.”

Something flickered across her face too quickly to identify.

“I see.”

The room temperature dropped about ten degrees.

“It wasn’t what you’re thinking,” I said.

“You have no idea what I’m thinking.”

“You’re thinking something that’s making you reorganize your pencils.”

She glanced down at her hand, which was indeed moving her already perfectly aligned pencils into an even more perfect formation.

“I don’t care what you do with Sabrina,” she said. “It’s none of my business.”

“Then why are you strangling that pen?”

Her grip loosened. “I’m not.”

“You were.”

“I was simply wondering,” she said, her voice deliberately casual, “if your involvement with my sister will affect your professional duties.”

I almost laughed. Almost.

“My involvement with your sister was sitting on the floor while she decided whether to open a box.”

Vivienne blinked. “A box.”

“Yes.”

“Of what?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “Because it’s a secret.”

“Because it’s not my secret to tell.”

Vivienne looked at me for a long moment, her expression unreadable.

Then she picked up her tablet again. “The launch party is Saturday evening. You’ll need a proper suit, not just your blazer and jeans. I’ve arranged an appointment with our family tailor tomorrow at three.”

Subject change. Fine by me.

“I already have a suit.”

“No, you have an adequate approximation of a suit. You need an actual suit.”

I opened my mouth to argue that a three-hundred dollar suit from a department store was, in fact, an actual suit, but Vivienne cut me off with a raised hand.

“This is non-negotiable. You’ll be representing Valentine Holdings in an official capacity. The suit has already been ordered and paid for.”

I knew when I was beaten.

“What time tomorrow?”

“Three o’clock. Milos will meet you at the address I’ll send to your phone.” She glanced at her watch. “You’re dismissed for today. I have a call with Tokyo in ten minutes.”

I stood up, my spine making ominous popping noises after an hour in her stiff-backed guest chair.

“Is my sister still with Harlow?” I asked.

Vivienne checked her tablet. “According to the staff chat, they’re in the kitchen making… cupcakes.” She said the word like it was a foreign concept.

“Cupcakes?”

“Harlow insisted they needed sustenance after building a fort. Mrs. Tanaka reports that they’ve used an excessive amount of sprinkles.”

The mental image of my serious-minded sister wearing an apron and decorating cupcakes was almost too much to process.

“Thank you,” I said. “For letting her stay.”

Vivienne waved her hand dismissively. “Harlow seems happy to have company her own age. She spends too much time with adults.”

The softness in her voice when she mentioned her youngest sister surprised me. Vivienne rarely showed that side of herself.

“They might end up being friends,” I said.

“Perhaps.” She looked back at her screen. “That will be all, Angelo.”

Dismissal complete.

I headed toward the door, then paused with my hand on the knob.

“Vivienne.”

She glanced up, eyebrow raised.

“Whatever you’re thinking happened with Sabrina… it didn’t.”

Her expression didn’t change. “As I said, it’s none of my concern what you do with my sisters in private rooms.”

“But it bothers you.”

Her eyes met mine directly, cool and unreadable.

“What bothers me,” she said carefully, “is that I called you seventeen times for a legitimate work matter, and you were unavailable because you were with my sister. That suggests misplaced priorities.”

“It won’t happen again.”

“See that it doesn’t.”

I left her study and closed the door behind me, exhaling slowly.

That went well.

About as well as jumping into a shark tank with a nosebleed.

I pulled out my phone and texted Iris.

Where are you?

The response came immediately: KITCHEN!! CUPCAKES!! COME DOWN THEY’RE AMAZING

I pocketed my phone and headed downstairs, navigating the maze of hallways that had become familiar over the past month. The kitchen was at the back of the house, a massive space with industrial appliances that could probably feed a small army.

As I approached, I heard laughter.

I pushed open the swinging door and found a scene of controlled chaos.

Iris stood at the center island, wearing what appeared to be one of Harlow’s aprons (pink, covered in hearts) and wielding a piping bag filled with purple frosting. Harlow bounced around her, adding sprinkles to a tray of finished cupcakes with the focused intensity of a bomb technician.

And Cassidy—this was the surprise—sat on a stool at the counter, her uniform blazer discarded, her sleeves rolled up, carefully painting what looked like tiny strawberries onto a cupcake with food coloring and a small brush.

My entrance went unnoticed for approximately three seconds before Harlow spotted me.

“ISAIAH!” she screeched, nearly dropping her sprinkle container. “You’re just in time! We made extras for you and Sabrina and Vivi!”

Iris looked up from her piping work, her face smudged with flour and something pink. “You need to try these,” she said. “They have actual strawberry pieces inside.”

Cassidy didn’t look up from her detailed painting work. “Scholarship Boy,” she acknowledged, her voice neutral.

I approached the island, surveying the damage. At least a dozen cupcakes in various states of decoration covered the surface. Some had simple frosting swirls, others elaborate designs, and Cassidy’s batch featured what appeared to be photorealistic fruit portraits.

“You’ve been busy,” I said.

“Harlow’s idea,” Cassidy muttered, still focused on her strawberry.

“Your sister is amazing,” Harlow said, bouncing over to me. “She knows how to make the frosting stuff actually stay in the bag instead of exploding everywhere, which is what usually happens when I try to do it.”

“Iris is good at following directions,” I said.

My sister rolled her eyes. “Unlike you.”

“I follow directions.”

“You follow suggestions that align with your pre-existing plans.”

“Same thing.”

“It’s literally the opposite.”

I picked up a finished cupcake with blue frosting and took a bite. The cake was moist, the frosting not too sweet, and the promised strawberry chunks gave it a fresh tartness.

“This is actually good,” I said, surprised.

“Why do you sound shocked?” Cassidy asked, finally looking up from her work. Her purple eyes narrowed.

“Did you think we’d make garbage?”