Four Of A Kind

Chapter 69: [2.42] A Duffel Bag in a Louis Vuitton World

The meeting with Vivienne lasted exactly twenty-seven minutes, as promised. She walked me through the weekend itinerary with the intensity of a general briefing troops before an invasion. Saturday morning: breakfast at eight, followed by Cassidy’s tutoring session from nine to eleven. Saturday afternoon: accompanying Vivienne to a brand partner meeting downtown. Saturday evening: “flexible,” which I suspected meant Harlow had already claimed those hours through some sister-negotiation process I wasn’t privy to. Sunday: more tutoring, a family dinner I was apparently required to attend, and departure by six PM.

Mrs. Tanaka appeared at my elbow the moment Vivienne dismissed me, materializing from whatever shadow dimension household staff seemed to inhabit in places like this.

“If you’ll follow me, Mr. Angelo. Your suite is prepared.”

Suite. Not room. Suite.

I should have known something was wrong when we passed twelve doors before reaching our destination. The hallway in the east wing stretched longer than the entire floor of my apartment building back in Kensington. Portraits of disapproving ancestors lined the walls at regular intervals, their painted eyes tracking my movements with aristocratic disdain.

Yes, I know I don’t belong here. You don’t have to rub it in.

Mrs. Tanaka stopped before a set of double doors and produced a key card from her pocket. The lock beeped green, and she pushed both doors open with a flourish that suggested she’d been waiting all day to witness my reaction.

I did not disappoint.

“This is… a room?”

What lay before me wasn’t a room. It was an entire apartment. A living area with plush furniture arranged around a fireplace that was actually burning.

A separate sleeping area visible through an archway, dominated by a bed that could comfortably fit my entire extended family and several neighbors.

Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Japanese garden, where the last rays of sunset painted everything in shades of orange and gold.

“The east wing guest suite. Miss Vivienne specifically requested you be given this room.”

“Is there a smaller option? Maybe a closet somewhere?”

“I’m afraid all the closets in this wing are larger than this suite, Mr. Angelo.”

I couldn’t tell if she was joking. Her face gave away nothing.

Mrs. Tanaka glided into the room and began pointing out features like a real estate agent. “The sitting area includes a sixty-five inch smart television with access to all major streaming platforms. The mini-refrigerator is stocked with beverages and snacks. Please inform me if you have any preferences I should accommodate.”

She opened the mini-fridge, revealing rows of drinks in glass bottles with labels I couldn’t pronounce. Fancy waters. Artisanal sodas. Something that looked suspiciously like champagne but was probably just very expensive sparkling grape juice. Each bottle probably cost more than my weekly grocery budget for both me and Iris combined.

“The bathroom is through here.”

I followed her through another doorway and immediately lost the ability to form coherent sentences.

The bathroom was bigger than my bedroom.

Scratch that. The bathroom was bigger than Iris’s bedroom AND my living room put together. White marble covered every surface.

A rain shower head the size of a dinner plate hung from the ceiling in one corner, surrounded by glass walls.

In another corner sat a soaking tub deep enough to drown in, with jets built into the sides and a small waterfall feature that was currently turned off but somehow still managed to look expensive.

Twin sinks stretched along one wall, each with its own mirror surrounded by professional lighting.

Fluffy white towels, thick enough to double as blankets, hung from heated racks.

“The water temperature can be adjusted via the panel here,” Mrs. Tanaka continued, pointing to what looked like a tablet embedded in the wall. “The tub fills in approximately four minutes. Robes and slippers are provided in the closet.”

“There’s a closet in the bathroom?”

She opened a door I hadn’t noticed, revealing a walk-in closet containing nothing but bathrobes in various materials and colors.

This was insane. This was absolutely, certifiably insane.

“I will leave you to settle in,” Mrs. Tanaka said, already moving toward the exit. “Dinner is at seven-thirty in the family dining room. Miss Harlow requested I inform you that she will be collecting you at seven-fifteen.”

“Collecting me?”

“Her words, Mr. Angelo. I merely relay messages.”

And then she was gone, leaving me alone in the middle of a room that cost more to furnish than I would earn in a decade.

I stood there for a full minute, just… existing. Trying to reconcile the fact that I, Isaiah Angelo, scholarship student and bartender, was standing in a guest suite that made luxury hotels look like budget motels.

The silence pressed against my ears. No traffic noise. No neighbors arguing through thin walls. No footsteps from the apartment above. Just the soft crackle of the fireplace and the distant tick of what was probably a very expensive clock.

I found my overnight bag on a luggage stand near the closet. The sight of it nearly made me laugh. A cheap canvas duffel, faded and worn at the corners, sitting in a room designed for Louis Vuitton trunks and designer garment bags.

I unzipped it and started unpacking.

Three shirts. Two pairs of pants. A single pair of jeans I’d thrown in at the last minute. My toiletries in a plastic grocery bag because I didn’t own an actual toiletry kit. A phone charger. My copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. One pair of sweatpants for sleeping.

I hung the shirts in the closet, and they looked like orphans at a country club. The space could have held hundreds of garments. My three shirts occupied approximately one percent of the available real estate.

The contrast was so absurd that I had to sit down on the bed just to process it.

The mattress absorbed me like a cloud made of money. I sank several inches into what felt like a thousand thread count sheets stretched over some sort of memory foam angel food cake hybrid. The pillows, plural, because apparently rich people needed at least eight pillows per bed, were the perfect combination of soft and supportive.

I could get used to this.

No. Bad Isaiah. This is temporary. Don’t forget where you came from.