Four Of A Kind

Chapter 72: [2.45] You Look… Expensive

The next twenty minutes became a fashion consultation I never asked for, never wanted, and could not escape.

Vivienne moved through The Archive like a general commanding troops, her heels clicking against the floor as she pulled items from racks with single-minded focus. Harlow trailed behind her, occasionally offering suggestions that Vivienne either accepted with a curt nod or dismissed with a withering glance. I stood in the middle of the chaos, feeling very much like a mannequin someone had forgotten to remove from the display.

“The charcoal works better with his coloring.” Vivienne held up a sweater, examined it under the light, then tossed it onto the growing pile. “But he’ll need a proper coat for tomorrow. The black wool. Third rack.”

“Ooh, the one with the—”

“Not that one. The one without embellishments. Simple lines.”

“But the embellishments are so PRETTY—”

“They’re also last year’s trend. Simple. Classic. Timeless.”

Harlow pouted but retrieved the requested coat anyway. She held it up for inspection, and Vivienne gave a single approving nod.

I opened my mouth to remind them that I was, in fact, a person with opinions about my own clothing, but Harlow shoved another shirt into my arms before I could speak.

“Try this one next! The collar is different! It’ll look SO good with the jacket Vivi picked!”

“I don’t need—”

“Behind the curtain!”

She pushed me back toward the changing area with an enthusiasm that brooked no argument. The curtain fell closed behind me, and I found myself staring at yet another pile of fabric that cost more than my monthly rent.

From beyond the curtain, I could hear the sisters continuing their debate.

“The belt needs to be brown, not black.”

“But the shoes are black!”

“Which is why the belt should contrast. It creates visual interest.”

“I thought matching was good?”

“Matching is safe. We’re not dressing him to be safe.”

I pulled on the new shirt. The fabric felt like a cloud had decided to wrap itself around my torso. The buttons practically fastened themselves.

This was insane.

Three weeks ago, I owned exactly four shirts. All of them came from thrift stores. Two of them had mysterious stains I’d stopped trying to identify. Now I was being dressed in clothing that would make European royalty jealous, by two teenage heiresses who argued about belt colors like it was a matter of national security.

When I stepped out again, both sisters fell silent.

Vivienne’s eyes narrowed. She walked toward me slowly, her gaze traveling across the outfit with an intensity that made me want to check if I’d buttoned something wrong.

“Acceptable.”

Coming from Vivienne, that word carried the weight of a standing ovation.

Harlow, however, had frozen in place. Her cheeks had gone pink again, and she was doing that thing where she stared at some point near my shoulder instead of meeting my eyes.

“The sleeves,” Vivienne said. “Roll them. Twice. Just below the elbow.”

I complied. She watched the process like a hawk monitoring its prey.

“Better.” She turned to Harlow. “You were right about the charcoal. It suits him.”

Harlow’s pink cheeks deepened toward red. “Told you!”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late! It’s already there! Living rent-free! Paying zero utilities!”

Vivienne sighed with the exhaustion of someone who had endured this particular brand of enthusiasm for seventeen years. She checked her watch and made a sound of displeasure.

“We’re late for dinner.”

“We’re fashionably late! That’s different!”

“Nothing about this was fashionable. It was chaotic.”

“Chaos can be fashionable! It’s called deconstructed styling!”

The sisters continued bickering as they headed toward the door. I followed, still wearing what I assumed was somewhere between five and ten thousand dollars worth of clothing on my body. The numbers made me slightly nauseous.

The walk to the dining room took approximately three minutes. During that time, Harlow managed to explain the entire history of the coat I was wearing, including the designer’s inspiration, the runway show where it debuted, and a detailed account of why the spring collection had been superior to the fall one that year.

I retained approximately twelve percent of the information.

We entered the family dining room, which was somehow different from both the formal dining room I’d seen during my earlier exploration and the informal one Mrs. Tanaka had mentioned. The Valentine Manor apparently contained enough dining spaces to host separate meals for every day of the week.

This particular room featured a table large enough for twelve but set for only five. Crystal glasses caught the light from an overhead chandelier. Fresh flowers occupied the center in an arrangement that probably cost more than my groceries for the month.

Cassidy was already seated, slumped in her chair with the boneless posture of someone who had given up on proper sitting technique entirely. She wore a black tank top and ripped jeans, which I suspected violated multiple unspoken dress codes but which no one seemed inclined to challenge.

Her purple eyes tracked my entrance. Traveled down my outfit. Widened slightly.

Then narrowed.

“The hell are you wearing?”

“Clothes.”

“Those aren’t clothes. Those are…” She gestured vaguely at my entire person. “What the hell happened to you?”

“I got kidnapped by your sister.”

“Which one?”

“Guess.”

Cassidy’s gaze slid to Harlow, who was bouncing toward her own seat with the satisfied energy of someone who had successfully completed a mission.

“Lo, did you dress him?”

“I IMPROVED him! He only brought three shirts, Cass. THREE. For the whole WEEKEND. I couldn’t let him suffer!”

“He doesn’t look like he’s suffering.”

“Because I FIXED it!”

Cassidy’s eyes returned to me. Something complicated moved behind them, an expression I couldn’t quite read. Her jaw tightened for a moment before she deliberately looked away.

“Whatever. Sit down. I’m starving.”

I took the seat across from her. Harlow claimed the one beside me, still vibrating with post-styling excitement. Vivienne settled at what I assumed was her designated spot, immediately pulling out her tablet to review something that was probably a schedule or a spreadsheet or a seventeen-point plan for world domination.

The only empty seat remained at the head of the table.

“Sabrina’s late,” Vivienne observed.

“Sabrina’s always late.” Cassidy grabbed a piece of bread from a basket and tore into it without ceremony. “She probably found a good light novel and forgot time exists.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“It’s an explanation. Different thing.”

Vivienne’s eye twitched.

Before the sisters could escalate into a full argument, Sabrina materialized in the doorway.

I say materialized because I genuinely did not see her approach. One moment the doorway was empty, and the next moment she was there, silent as a shadow. She wore a deep burgundy dress that probably qualified as lingerie in most contexts, her wine-red hair loose around her shoulders. A book was tucked under her arm. Her purple eyes scanned the table, passed over each of her sisters, and landed on me.

She tilted her head slightly.

“You look different.”

“Harlow dressed him!” The announcement came with a full-body bounce from my left.

“I see.” Sabrina drifted toward her seat with the unhurried pace of someone who operated on a completely different timeline than the rest of humanity. She settled into the chair beside Vivienne, placed her book on the table, and folded her hands in her lap. “The charcoal suits you.”

“That’s what I said! See, Vivi? Sabrina agrees!”

“I agreed first.”

“You said ’acceptable.’ That’s not the same as agreeing!”

“Acceptable implies—”

“Girls.”