Four Of A Kind

The Gulfstream G650’s cabin lights dimmed to simulate evening, though somewhere over the Atlantic the sun still blazed against bulletproof windows. Camille Ashford-Valentine sat in cream leather that cost more than most people’s cars, her laptop balanced on a mahogany table that folded out with mechanical precision. The quarterly reports could wait. Her daughters demanded immediate attention.

The security feed loaded with crystalline clarity on her second monitor. Twelve different camera angles throughout Valentine Manor, each one a window into her children’s lives that she watched from thirty thousand feet above the ocean. The technology was invasive, yes. Necessary? Absolutely.

Her finger hovered over the trackpad. The timestamp showed 11:47 PM. Past their bedtime, though she’d long ago given up enforcing such trivial rules. They were seventeen, not seven. Old enough to make their own mistakes and suffer the consequences.

The west wing corridor appeared first. Empty. Portraits of dead Valentines stared down at polished marble floors that reflected nothing but shadows. Then the east wing, equally vacant except for Mrs. Tanaka’s efficient movements as she prepared the house for night.

Camille’s jaw tightened when she found them.

The Archive. Her daughters clustered around the entrance like conspirators, their vampire costumes from that ridiculous school festival still clinging to their bodies. Harlow bounced on her toes with characteristic enthusiasm. Cassidy leaned against the wall with arms crossed, her expression somewhere between bored and predatory. Sabrina stood apart from the group, observing with those calculating purple eyes that reminded Camille too much of Richard.

And there was Isaiah Angelo.

The boy stood in the hallway outside the Archive’s gold-handled doors, looking uncomfortable in ways that should have reassured her. His costume was wrinkled from whatever they’d been doing. His hair fell across his forehead in dark waves that needed cutting. Even through the security feed, his exhaustion was visible in the slight slump of his shoulders, the way he rubbed the back of his neck like tension lived there permanently.

He was attractive, she’d give him that much. The kind of lean, sharp-featured attractiveness that made teenage girls lose their minds and forget their trust funds. Dark eyes that seemed to see too much. A mouth that probably knew exactly what to say to make her daughters feel special and understood.

The Angelo boy was dangerous.

Not because he was violent or criminal. Those threats were simple to eliminate. No, Isaiah Angelo posed a different kind of danger entirely. He was intelligent enough to recognize opportunity when it knocked on his door. Charming enough to make her daughters believe his interest was genuine. Desperate enough to do whatever it took to secure his future.

And her daughters were too infatuated to see him for what he truly was.

Camille switched to the Archive’s internal camera just as Isaiah pushed open the doors. The feed showed Vivienne sitting on the marble floor in her ridiculous cape, tears streaming down her face with mascara creating dark tracks against pale skin. Her eldest daughter looked broken in ways that made something crack inside Camille’s chest.

She wanted to reach through the screen and pull Vivienne into her arms. Kiss away the tears like she used to when her daughters were small and skinned knees were the worst pain they knew. But those days were gone, burned away in the aftermath of Richard’s death and the brutal realities of corporate warfare.

Instead, she watched Isaiah kneel beside her daughter and offer comfort that should have come from her.

The boy’s voice didn’t carry through the audio feed, but his body language spoke volumes. Gentle. Patient. The kind of careful tenderness that Richard used to show when Camille herself was falling apart behind closed doors. Isaiah handed Vivienne something—water, probably. Iris had texted about dehydration and crying, though Camille pretended not to notice how her youngest daughter worried about everyone except herself.

The scene unfolding on her screen was intimate in ways that made Camille’s blood pressure spike. Not sexual, though the tension crackling between Isaiah and Vivienne could power half of Manhattan. This was worse. This was emotional intimacy, the kind that led to poor decisions and broken hearts and trust funds transferred to undeserving recipients.

Her phone buzzed against the mahogany table. Mrs. Tanaka’s contact photo appeared—a professional headshot that revealed nothing about the woman who’d helped raise Camille’s daughters after Richard’s death.

“Yes?”

“Mrs. Valentine.” Mrs. Tanaka’s voice carried across continents with perfect clarity. “You asked for updates regarding Mr. Angelo’s activities this evening.”

“I’m watching the feeds now.” Camille’s eyes never left the screen where Isaiah was now sitting beside Vivienne on the Archive floor. Too close. Far too close. “Tell me what I’m not seeing.”

“The young man arrived approximately three hours ago with Miss Iris. They participated in the school festival preparation. All four of your daughters were…” Mrs. Tanaka paused, selecting her words with diplomatic care. “Enthusiastic about his presence.”

“Enthusiastic how?”

“Miss Harlow created a matching costume for his sister. Miss Cassidy abandoned her usual resistance to group activities. Miss Sabrina engaged in conversation without prompting. And Miss Vivienne…” Another pause. “Miss Vivienne smiled, ma’am. Genuinely smiled for the first time in weeks.”

That crack in Camille’s chest widened. When was the last time she’d seen Vivienne smile? Really smile, not the corporate mask she wore for photographers and board meetings. Months, probably. Maybe longer.

“And now?” Camille asked, though she could see exactly what was happening now. Isaiah’s hand rested on Vivienne’s shoulder while she leaned against him like he was the only solid thing in her universe.

“Miss Vivienne had what appeared to be a panic attack after returning from the festival. She requested solitude in the Archive. Mr. Angelo ignored this request and followed her inside.”

On screen, Isaiah tilted his head toward Vivienne as she spoke. Whatever she was saying made his expression soften in ways that reminded Camille painfully of Richard listening to her own fears and doubts during the early days of their marriage.

“Have they…” Camille couldn’t finish the question. The implications were too dangerous to voice aloud.

“No inappropriate physical contact has been observed, ma’am. However, their emotional connection appears to be deepening beyond professional boundaries.”