Four Of A Kind

Chapter 84: [2.59] A Reservation for Two, An Expectation for One

The digital marketing team turned out to be three people who looked like they’d recently graduated college and still thought the internet was going to save the world. They spent twenty minutes asking Vivienne about her Instagram strategy, her thoughts on TikTok influencer partnerships, and whether she’d consider starting a YouTube channel dedicated to sustainable fashion.

Vivienne handled each question with the same polished grace she’d shown during the interview. I stood behind her with the portfolio, occasionally handing her notes when she needed statistics or product details. By the time we finished, the three millennials looked like they’d just met their new religion.

We finally escaped the studio at three-forty. The same black town car waited outside, and the driver opened the door for Vivienne without a word. I slid in after her, already pulling out my phone to check for messages.

Iris had sent me approximately seventeen texts asking if I was dead yet or if the billionaires had sacrificed me to their money gods. I ignored them.

Vivienne settled into her seat and smoothed her dress with careful hands. “Call ahead,” she said. “Reservations for two. I’d like a private booth if they have one available.”

I blinked at her. “Where are we going?”

“Osteria Morini. It’s in SoHo.”

Right. Of course it was.

I pulled up the restaurant’s number and hit call while Vivienne opened her tablet and began scrolling through what looked like a schedule for the next six weeks. The phone rang twice before someone picked up.

“Osteria Morini, this is Giovanni speaking. How may I assist you?”

“Hi,” I said, keeping my voice professional. “I’d like to make a reservation for two people, as soon as possible. Private booth if you have one.”

“Of course! May I have a name for the reservation?”

“Miss Valentine.”

The silence on the other end lasted about three seconds. That should have been my first clue.

“Miss… Valentine?” Giovanni’s voice had changed. It now carried the kind of nervous energy usually reserved for bomb disposal experts. “As in… Valentine Holdings?”

“Yes.”

“Oh my god. Of course. Yes. Absolutely. The VIP room will be prepared immediately. What time should we expect Miss Valentine?”

I glanced at Vivienne, who was still focused on her tablet. “Probably around four-fifteen?”

“Perfect. We’ll have everything ready. Is there anything specific Miss Valentine would like? Any dietary restrictions? Preferences for wine pairings?”

The guy sounded like he was about to hyperventilate.

“I’ll… let her know you asked,” I said slowly. “Thanks.”

“No, thank you! We’re honored! We’ll see you soon!”

He hung up before I could respond.

I stared at my phone for a second, trying to process what had just happened. Then I looked at Vivienne.

“They’re preparing the VIP room,” I said.

Vivienne’s fingers paused on the tablet screen. Her eyebrows rose slightly.

“The VIP room?”

“Yeah. The guy sounded like I’d just told him the President was coming for lunch.”

She went quiet. Her purple eyes tracked left while she thought, the tablet forgotten in her lap. Then understanding clicked into place across her face.

“Ah.” She set the tablet aside and folded her hands in her lap. “They think you’re calling for my mother.”

“Your mother has a reputation at Italian restaurants in SoHo?” I asked.

“My mother doesn’t have a reputation,” Vivienne corrected. “She has a sphere of influence. Camille Valentine dines out approximately twice per week. She prefers Italian cuisine when she’s in New York. She has… exacting standards.”

That was one way to put it.

My mind connected the dots. The nervous energy from Mrs. Tanaka. The way Vivienne’s posture became rigid at the mention of her mother’s name. I’d been working for this family for over two weeks and still hadn’t met the woman who signed my checks, yet her influence was felt everywhere.

The mysterious Camille Valentine.

CEO of a billion-dollar empire. Mother of four identical daughters. Apparently terrifying enough that restaurant managers lost their composure at the mere possibility of her arrival.

“Should I call them back?” I asked. “Clarify that it’s you, not her?”

Vivienne considered this for exactly two seconds.

“No,” she said. “Let them prepare the VIP room. We’ll enjoy it.”

I stared at her.

“You’re serious.”

“Completely.” She picked up her tablet again. “If they’ve already allocated resources for the VIP room, canceling now would simply waste their effort. We might as well use it.”

“You know,” I said, leaning back, “that’s a hell of a power move.”

“I’m seventeen years old running point on a multi-million dollar brand partnership while maintaining a 4.0 GPA,” Vivienne said without looking up from her tablet. “My life is a power move.”

Fair point.

The car merged into SoHo traffic. I watched the streets slide past while my brain tried to reconcile this version of Vivienne with all the other versions I’d encountered. The ice queen from school. The perfectionist who’d grilled me about pocket squares. The surprisingly vulnerable girl who’d needed help with a stuck zipper.

And now this. The girl who’d casually let a restaurant think her mother was coming just so we could enjoy a nicer table.

People were complicated. Rich people were complicated in expensive ways.

“Can I ask you something?” I said.

“You just did.”

I ignored that. “What’s your mother actually like?”

Vivienne’s fingers stopped moving across the tablet screen. For a moment I thought she wasn’t going to answer. Then she exhaled slowly and set the tablet down again.

“My mother is efficient.”

A beat of silence.

“That’s it? ’Efficient’?”

“She ensures things run on time. She transformed a legacy into an empire. She does what is necessary.”

“And what’s necessary?” I pressed.

Her gaze shifted to her hands in her lap. “Ruthlessness. And she expects the same… dedication… from everyone.”

None of that sounded like a description of a mother. It sounded like a performance review.

“Do you see her often?” I asked.

“Define often.” Vivienne’s gaze shifted to the window. “She’s in New York approximately four days per month. The rest of the time she’s traveling. Tokyo, Paris, Milan, London. Wherever the business requires her presence.”

I did the math in my head. Four days per month meant she was gone for twenty-six days. Every month.

“Must be lonely,” I said.

Vivienne’s head snapped toward me, her purple eyes losing all their warmth.

“I don’t need your pity, Isaiah.”