Four Of A Kind

Chapter 41: [2.14] The Verbal Equivalent of Permafrost

She disappeared through the conference room doors without a backward glance.

I sat in the waiting area, carefully setting her bag down beside the chair. My phone came out of my pocket. The screen lit up with notifications I’d been ignoring for the past thirty minutes.

Through the glass walls, I could see Vivienne taking her position at that table.

The room was full of grown adults in expensive suits.

Men and women whose business cards contained multiple lines of text. Words like “Senior.” “Director.” “Vice President of Brand Strategy.” They had leather portfolios spread open in front of them.

Presentation materials arranged just so. The kind of nervous energy that radiated off people who understood exactly whose approval they needed.

Vivienne stood at the head of the table. Seventeen years old. School uniform still on under that blazer. Half the age of everyone else in that room. Maybe a third the age of some of them.

And somehow she made every single one of them look like they were defending their thesis to a committee that had already decided to fail them.

She pointed at something on the projection screen. Her finger moved in a sharp, decisive gesture. A marketing executive immediately scrambled to respond. His mouth moved quickly. Too quickly. Another executive pulled up additional data on a tablet. Fingers flying across the screen. A third person started nodding. Frantically. At whatever Vivienne was saying.

She’s terrifying.

One of the executives made a suggestion. Vivienne’s expression shifted. Her head tilted approximately three degrees to the left. Even through the glass, even without hearing the words, I could see the temperature in that room drop by about twenty degrees.

And impressive.

But mostly terrifying.

The meeting stretched on.

One hour became two. Then two stretched toward three. I occupied the time the way I always did. Reviewed messages. Responded to Iris asking what I wanted for dinner (something simple, she had homework) and confirmed tomorrow’s schedule with Harlow.

My phone buzzed periodically. Work schedules. Reminder notifications. The digital architecture of a life lived in fifteen-minute increments.

Ninety minutes became one hundred and five.

Then the conference room doors opened.

Vivienne stepped through first. Her posture was immaculate. Her expression was controlled. But there was something in the set of her jaw. Something in the way her fingers gripped that leather portfolio just a fraction too tightly.

The executives followed her out. They looked like survivors stumbling away from a natural disaster. Shell-shocked. Slightly pale. One of them was sweating through his dress shirt despite the aggressive air conditioning.

Vivienne’s heels clicked against the marble. She stopped in front of me. Her purple eyes met mine. For exactly three seconds, I saw past the mask. Saw the exhaustion. The frustration. The weight of carrying an empire on shoulders that technically shouldn’t have graduated high school yet.

Then the mask snapped back into place.

“We’re leaving.” Her voice was flat. Cold. The verbal equivalent of permafrost. “Now.”

I stood. Straightened my jacket. Fell into step beside her without question.

We made it approximately ten feet before she spoke again.

“They wanted to use influencer integration for the winter campaign.”

“Influencers?”

“INFLUENCERS.” The word came out like a curse. She stopped walking and turned to face me. “Random social media personalities hawking products to their followers like carnival barkers. As if Valentine Beauté is some desperate, discount brand begging for scraps of attention from children with ring lights and twenty-second attention spans.”

I kept my expression neutral. “I take it that’s bad.”

“It’s pedestrian. It’s derivative. It’s everything this company should never be.” She resumed walking. The hallway parted in front of her like the Red Sea.

“Following trends instead of creating them. Chasing algorithms instead of excellence. Valentine doesn’t chase what’s popular, Angelo. Valentine DEFINES what becomes popular. We are the standard by which other brands measure themselves. We don’t need influencers to validate our products. We ARE the influence.”

“Noted.”

Conversations died as we passed. People ducked into offices. A younger employee literally pressed herself against the wall to give Vivienne more clearance. The temperature in the hallway dropped with each click of Vivienne’s heels against the marble floor.

“I’ve scheduled a meeting with the senior marketing director for Friday.” Her voice had cooled from volcanic to merely glacial. A statement of fact delivered with the weight of a death sentence. “We will revisit the campaign strategy. They will present alternatives. Those alternatives will be acceptable, or there will be personnel changes. Possibly both.”

“Should I add that to the calendar?”

“It’s already on the calendar.” She didn’t break stride. “I added it during the meeting while simultaneously explaining to them why their initial proposal was unacceptable, why their market research was flawed, and why their understanding of the Valentine brand identity was fundamentally wrong.”

Multitasking at its finest.

The elevator doors opened. We stepped inside. Vivienne’s thumb found the biometric scanner without her even looking at it.

“Our next appointment is at the Maison Valentine flagship store. Seventeen minutes.” She checked her watch. “The fall collection review. Mother wants my assessment before the official launch next week.”

“What am I looking for?”

The question surprised her. Her purple eyes shifted from her watch to my face.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re bringing me to a fashion review. I’m assuming I have a role beyond standing there and looking decorative. So what should I be paying attention to?”

She stared at me for a long moment. The elevator descended in silence.

“Quality.” Her voice changed. Softer now. Less commanding and more… thoughtful. “Look for inconsistencies in stitching. Fabric weight that doesn’t match the design aesthetic. Color variations that suggest poor dye lot control. Construction shortcuts that sacrifice durability for cost savings.”

“And if I notice something?”

“Then you me. Quietly. I’ll handle the rest.”

The elevator reached the ground floor. The doors opened onto the lobby.

Vivienne stepped out first. I followed with her bag, positioning myself slightly behind and to her left. Outside, the valet had already returned with the Lexus. The engine purred softly at idle. I moved ahead to open Vivienne’s door. She slid inside without a word, settling into the back seat. I circled around to the driver’s seat and adjusted the mirrors.

“Seventeen minutes.” She was already on her tablet again, stylus moving across the screen. “Madison will be a disaster at this hour. The crosstown traffic is always congested between noon and two. Take Fifth instead. Turn south at 53rd.”

“Yes, Vivienne.”

She paused. Just for a moment. The tablet lowered half an inch. Her perfectly manicured finger stopped mid-swipe.

“You remembered.”

“You told me to use it when we’re alone.”

Her eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. Something flickered there. Surprise? Appreciation? Something she didn’t quite know how to process. For a girl who controlled every variable in her life, the fact that I’d actually listened seemed to throw her off balance.

“I did.” She returned to her tablet, but the stylus moved slower now. “Drive.”

I drove.