Four Of A Kind

Chapter 40: [2.13] Green Light for Miss Valentine

One week down.

The routine had started to crystallize.

Wake at 4:30.

Drive to Manhattan.

School.

Drive whoever needed driving.

Tutor Cassidy (when she bothered to show up).

Drive home.

Sleep.

Repeat.

My body was adjusting. My bank account was adjusting faster—the first direct deposit had hit on Friday, and for the first time in years, I hadn’t immediately calculated which bills it needed to cover.

Today’s assignment: chauffeur duty for Vivienne.

The Lexus sat in the east parking lot at Hartwell Academy. Engine idling. Air conditioning on because September in Manhattan couldn’t decide if it wanted to be summer or fall. My eyes tracked the east entrance doors through the windshield.

2:43 PM.

Two minutes.

I’d gotten out of classes at 2:30 because Vivienne’s email had contained exactly seventeen bullet points about punctuality. Each one more threatening than the last. The final bullet point simply read: “Tardiness will not be tolerated. I trust this is understood.”

It was understood. Painfully understood.

The doors opened at 2:44.

Nothing.

Students filtered out. None of them had wine-red hair. None of them moved like they owned the building and everyone in it.

2:44:30.

Still nothing.

Maybe she’s running late. Maybe she got held up by student council stuff. Maybe…

2:45:00.

The doors swung open.

Vivienne Valentine emerged. Blazer buttoned. Posture immaculate. Hair styled in waves that probably took forty-five minutes to achieve. She walked toward the Lexus like the pavement existed solely for the purpose of supporting her feet.

Of course. Why would I expect anything different from the woman who color-codes her sock drawer?

I got out. Walked around. Opened the passenger door.

Vivienne slid into the passenger seat without comment.

I closed the door. Returned to the driver’s seat. Put the car in drive.

Through my peripheral vision, I watched Vivienne conduct what could only be described as a vehicle inspection. Her eyes swept across the dashboard. The center console. The floor mats. She ran one finger along the edge of the dashboard, checking for dust like a drill sergeant inspecting barracks.

“Acceptable.”

“Hello to you too.”

She pulled out her tablet and opened what appeared to be a traffic monitoring app.

“We have fourteen minutes to reach Valentine Holdings. Traffic on Madison Avenue will add approximately three minutes to our estimated arrival time. Compensate.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I told you not to call me ma’am. I’m seventeen.”

“What should I call you, then?”

“Miss Valentine will suffice during professional interactions.”

“And in private?”

Vivienne’s tablet lowered approximately two inches. Her purple eyes shifted from the screen to my face.

“Vivienne.” Her voice was quieter now. “When we’re alone, you may call me Vivienne.”

“Vivienne it is.”

I merged onto Madison Avenue.

The traffic was exactly as terrible as Vivienne had predicted. Yellow cabs jockeyed for position like angry hornets. Delivery trucks double-parked with complete disregard for traffic laws. Pedestrians jaywalked with the confidence of people who’d accepted death as an inevitable consequence of living in Manhattan.

This was our third drive together. She’d stopped explaining basic navigation after the first one, which I took as a compliment.

Vivienne Valentine didn’t repeat herself unless she thought you were stupid.

I found a gap between a taxi and a black SUV. Took it. Weaved through the mess with the kind of driving that probably violated several DMV recommendations but technically stayed within legal limits.

Vivienne continued reviewing documents. Her finger swiped across the tablet screen in regular intervals. The reflection of graphs and charts played across her glasses.

“Your driving is adequate.”

The words emerged from Vivienne’s mouth without her looking up from the tablet.

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment. Adequate is the minimum acceptable standard for any task performed under my supervision.”

Ah. There it is. The Valentine family communication style.

“Then I’ll aim for adequate-plus tomorrow.”

Her tablet lowered again. Her head turned toward me with the slow, deliberate motion of someone who had just heard something unexpected.

“Was that… a joke?”

“An observation.”

“Observations don’t contain sarcasm.”

“Mine do.”

She stared at me for approximately four seconds. I kept my eyes on the road because Manhattan traffic waited for no one, especially not for whatever internal calculation Vivienne was running.

“Interesting.”

The Valentine Holdings building appeared on the next block.

Forty floors of glass and steel rising into the Manhattan skyline. The company logo, an elegant V intertwined with a heart, glowed in subtle gold near the top. The architecture screamed money. Old money. The kind of money that didn’t need to announce itself because everyone already knew.

I pulled up to the entrance. Put the car in park. Got out.

Vivienne waited.

Right. Door duty.

I walked around and opened her door. She emerged from the vehicle with the grace of someone who had probably been trained in deportment since birth. Her feet touched the pavement. Her shoulders squared. Her expression shifted from “reviewing documents” to “about to conquer the known world.”

She didn’t thank me. I didn’t expect her to.

Gratitude requires acknowledging that someone has done something for you. Valentine women don’t acknowledge such things. It would imply they couldn’t do everything themselves.

A valet appeared from nowhere to take the car. I handed over the keys and grabbed Vivienne’s bag from the back seat. The bag weighed approximately thirty pounds and contained, based on my rough estimate, enough documents to rebuild the Library of Alexandria.

“This way.” Vivienne was already walking toward the entrance.

I followed.

The lobby of Valentine Holdings resembled a museum more than a corporate headquarters. Marble floors polished to a mirror finish. Modern art installations that probably cost more than my entire neighborhood. A reception desk staffed by two women who looked like they’d stepped out of a high-fashion magazine.

Security checkpoints emerged after the lobby. Metal detectors. Bag scanners. A guard who examined my temporary ID badge like I might be planning to steal the corporate secrets hidden in the ceiling tiles.

Vivienne moved through it all without pausing. Her badge beeped green at every checkpoint. Guards nodded at her with the respect, elevator doors opened before she reached them, operated by someone watching through security cameras.

She owns this place. Or she will. Everyone here knows it.

The elevator required a biometric scan. Vivienne pressed her thumb against the reader. The display lit up green. The elevator began its ascent to the thirty-seventh floor.

I stood beside her, carrying her bag.

The elevator doors opened onto a floor that screamed “marketing department.” Glass-walled conference rooms lined the hallway. Whiteboards covered in campaign strategies. Employees in business casual who all looked vaguely stressed.

Vivienne walked toward the largest conference room at the end of the hall. I followed three steps behind because that seemed like the appropriate distance for a personal assistant.

“Wait here.”

She gestured toward a small seating area outside the conference room. Two chairs. A water cooler. A potted plant that looked fake but was probably real because Valentine companies didn’t do fake.

“The meeting should take approximately forty-five minutes. I’ll signal when I need you.”