Four Of A Kind

Chapter 67: [2.40] My Little Sister is a Trope Connoisseur

Friday morning arrived with the subtlety of a nuclear explosion, thanks to my sister’s uncanny ability to wake up before her alarm and make enough noise to rival a construction site. I’d packed my overnight bag last night for my first mandatory weekend at Valentine Manor, mostly to avoid this exact scenario: Iris micromanaging my packing at six in the morning.

Too late.

“You only packed two shirts? For the entire weekend?” Iris stood in my bedroom doorway (technically the living room, but we pretend the couch is a bed for my dignity’s sake) with her hands on her hips. Her dark hair was piled into a messy bun that defied gravity, and she wore those ridiculous cat-patterned pajamas that were two sizes too big.

I sighed, slinging my bag over my shoulder. “Three shirts. And two pairs of pants. It’s two days, not a month-long expedition to Antarctica.”

“But what if you spill something? Or what if there’s, like, a fancy dinner? Or what if—”

“Then I’ll wash it in their gold-plated washing machine or buy new clothes with my obscene salary.” I moved toward the door, but Iris blocked my path with surprising effectiveness for someone half my size. “Can you move? I need to catch the train.”

“The train?” Her eyebrows shot up. “You have a car now. A really nice car.”

“Force of habit.”

Three weeks into this job, and I still couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that I drove a Lexus to school now. That I wore clothes that cost more than our groceries.

That I was about to spend the weekend in a mansion with four teenage billionaire heiresses who decided I was worth keeping around.

Iris circled me like a tiny drill sergeant inspecting a new recruit, her critical gaze taking in every detail of my appearance. She reached up and straightened my collar, then brushed away an invisible piece of lint from my shoulder.

“You look… acceptable,” she declared after her inspection. “The rich people won’t throw you out on sight, at least.”

“High praise. Can I go now? I don’t want to get stuck in traffic.”

“Not yet.” She raised a finger, her expression deadly serious. “We need to go over the rules.”

I checked my watch. “You already gave me the rules. ’Don’t get fired,’ ’Don’t get adopted,’ and ’Bring me back snacks.’”

“Those were the preliminary rules.” She crossed her arms. “Now we need the advanced rules.”

“Advanced rules.”

“Yes. Rule number four. And this is the most important one.” The teasing left her face, replaced with an expression of such grave seriousness that she looked forty instead of fourteen. “No going into the kitchen to make coffee in the morning while shirtless.”

I stared at her. “What?”

“Because that’s what you do here. You roll out of bed, stumble into the kitchen like a zombie, and make coffee without a shirt on because you’re a heathen with no sense of proper attire.”

“I do not—”

“Yes, you do. Every morning. And you can’t do that there.” She jabbed a finger at my chest.

“My friend Sarah says that’s a ’weapon of mass seduction.’”

“A what? What middle schooler even knows that phrase?”

Iris ignored me completely. “She said, and I quote, ’A handsome but oblivious guy making coffee shirtless in the morning is a critical hit against any girl with a pulse. It’s, like, the number one trope in manga.’ You have to be careful, Zay. You’re a trope now.”

My face burned. “That’s ridiculous. They’re my employers. They’re billionaires with approximately seventeen personal chefs. They see me as the help, not… a trope.”

“They’re also teenage girls. With hormones.” She poked me in the chest again. “And you’re the new guy living in their house for the weekend. Do the math, genius.”

“Nothing is going to happen,” I said, with more conviction than I felt. “They see me as a servant at best, a plaything at worst, and that’s being generous.”

Iris got a thoughtful, mischievous look that I recognized as the prelude to psychological warfare. “You know… if you do accidentally seduce one of them, and you get married with kids… does that make me an auntie? Like, a super-rich auntie? Can I get a pony?”

Me?

Married?

To one of them?

“That’s not even remotely funny.” I grabbed my bag off the floor. “I’m their tutor and assistant. A glorified servant. Nothing more.”

“Sure, but which one do you think is the most likely candidate? The scary one with the ponytail? The red-headed demon? The quiet one who reads all the time? Or the bouncy one who hugs you?”

“None of the above. The correct answer is: my job, which I need to keep so we can pay rent and you can eat something besides instant ramen.”

Iris grinned, clearly enjoying my discomfort. “You know, all those manhwa I read start exactly like this. Poor boy gets job working for rich family, rich daughters all fall for him, chaos ensues.”

I grabbed my keys from the hook by the door. “Okay, I’m leaving. You have Mrs. Delgado’s number. You have the emergency fund. Don’t burn the apartment down.”

“You know I’m right,” she sang, bouncing on her toes. “That’s why you’re getting all defensive.”

“I’m defensive because I’m going to be late.”

Iris stood on her tiptoes and gave me a quick hug. “Have fun in the castle, Zay.” She whispered in my ear, her voice full of barely contained laughter: “And remember: no shirtless coffee making. I’m too young to be an auntie.”

“You’re the worst.” But I hugged her back, the tension in my shoulders easing slightly.

“Text me when you get there! And don’t forget to take pictures of the fancy food!”

“Yes, yes. Be good. Do your homework. Don’t talk to strange boys.”

“What about strange girls?”

“Especially not strange girls. They’re more dangerous.”

She rolled her eyes. “So dramatic. Go before your ice queen boss sends a SWAT team to extract you.”

I walked out the door, shaking my head, a reluctant smile tugging at my lips. For all her teasing and wild imagination, Iris was the one constant in my life, the one person who saw me as just Isaiah, not the scholarship kid, not the bartender, not the assistant. Just her annoying older brother who somehow kept the lights on.

As I took the stairs down to the street, my phone buzzed in my pocket.

Vivienne Valentine: I have reviewed your weekend schedule and made several adjustments. See attached PDF.

Vivienne Valentine: Cassidy’s academic performance report from yesterday indicates improvement. Your methods, while unorthodox, appear to be yielding results. Continue.

I scrolled through the message thread as I walked to the parking garage where I kept the Lexus. Three more messages arrived before I even reached the car.

Harlow Valentine: ASSISTANT-KUUUUUN! Are you excited for the weekend?? I have SO MANY things planned! We can watch anime and I can show you my cosplay collection and we can make cookies and stay up all night talking and it will be AMAZING! 🌸✨💕

Sabrina Valentine: 🌹

Cassidy Valentine: I’m going to destroy you tonight. Prepare to lose all your stupid chips.

I stared at my phone for a long moment, then let out a deep sigh.

I slid into the driver’s seat of the Lexus, the leather cool against my back despite the early autumn warmth. As I started the engine, my phone buzzed again. Expecting another Valentine sister demand, I was surprised to see Iris’s name instead.

Iris: If you DO get married, I want Harlow. She seems fun and would probably let me raid her closet.