Four Of A Kind

Chapter 85: [2.60] There Are Three Kinds of Water, and I Am Out of My Depth

“Not pity,” I said. “I can relate somewhat.”

She studied my face for a long moment, like she was trying to determine whether I was lying. Then something in her expression softened.

“It’s not lonely,” she said quietly. “It’s simply how things are. Mother has responsibilities. The company doesn’t run itself. We understand that.”

The way she said it sounded rehearsed. Like she’d told herself this story so many times she’d started to believe it.

I decided not to push. We’d reached the edge of what Vivienne was willing to discuss, and I wasn’t suicidal enough to cross that line.

The car pulled up in front of a restaurant with dark wood accents and warm lighting spilling onto the sidewalk. Osteria Morini. The driver opened Vivienne’s door first, then walked around to let me out. I grabbed the portfolio and followed Vivienne inside.

The hostess saw us coming and her face went through several emotions in rapid succession. Confusion. Panic. Relief that we weren’t an angry mob. Then back to panic when she realized we were probably still important.

“Miss Valentine?” she said, her voice higher than it probably should have been.

“Yes.” Vivienne’s tone carried absolute certainty.

“Right this way! Your table is ready!”

The hostess grabbed two leather-bound menus and practically sprinted toward the back of the restaurant. We followed at a more reasonable pace. I caught glimpses of the main dining room as we passed. White tablecloths. Expensive wine bottles. People who looked like they’d never worried about rent in their entire lives.

Then we turned down a hallway and the hostess opened a door to reveal the VIP room.

Calling it a room felt inadequate. It was more like a private dining experience that had somehow manifested inside a restaurant. Dark wood paneling. Soft lighting from actual candles instead of fake ones. A table set for two with crystal glasses and cloth napkins folded into shapes I didn’t recognize. A window overlooking the street below, with curtains that could be closed for privacy.

The whole setup screamed “people who have more money than God eat here.”

“Your server will be with you momentarily,” the hostess said, backing toward the door like she was afraid to turn her back on us. “Please let us know if you need anything at all.”

She disappeared before Vivienne could respond.

I set the portfolio down on an empty chair and looked at Vivienne.

“This is insane,” I said.

“This is standard.” She settled into her seat with the same perfect posture she maintained everywhere. “Sit.”

I sat.

The chair was more comfortable than my bed at home. The table probably cost more than my entire apartment’s furniture combined. The view of SoHo through the window looked like something from a movie about rich people doing rich people things.

And here I was. Scholarship kid from Kensington. Sitting across from a seventeen-year-old who ran a fashion empire in her spare time.

My life had gotten really weird really fast.

“You’re staring,” Vivienne said.

“I’m processing.”

“Process faster. Our server will arrive in approximately two minutes and I’d prefer you not look like a deer in headlights when they do.”

I pulled myself together and straightened in my chair. “Better?”

She examined me with critical eyes. Then she reached across the table and adjusted my collar.

Again.

Her fingers brushed against my neck. Again.

“Better,” she said, pulling her hand back quickly. “Now you look like you belong here instead of like someone who wandered in off the street.”

“I did wander in off the street,” I pointed out. “Technically.”

“Technically you’re my assistant and you accompanied me to a business lunch.” Vivienne opened her menu with smooth efficiency. “There’s a difference.”

Right. Business lunch.

Except this didn’t feel like business. This felt like something else entirely. Something I probably shouldn’t think too hard about while sitting across from one of my employers in a VIP room that we’d accidentally obtained through mistaken identity.

The door opened and a server entered carrying a wine list. He looked young, maybe mid-twenties, with the kind of nervous energy that suggested this was his first time serving in the VIP room.

“Good afternoon, Miss Valentine,” he said, his voice only shaking slightly. “My name is Marco and I’ll be taking care of you today. Can I start you off with something to drink?”

Vivienne glanced at me. “Isaiah?”

“Water’s fine,” I said.

“Sparkling or still?”

Of course there were options for water.

“Still.”

“I’ll have the San Pellegrino,” Vivienne said. “And please bring us the chef’s recommendations for today. We’ll order shortly.”

Marco nodded so hard I worried about his neck. “Of course! Right away!”

He vanished.

Vivienne opened her menu and began reading with the same focus she applied to everything else. I opened mine and immediately regretted it.

The prices weren’t listed.

That meant they were expensive enough that people who ate here didn’t care about prices.

I tried not to think about the fact that I was holding a menu where a single appetizer probably equaled my weekly grocery budget.

“Order whatever you’d like,” Vivienne said without looking up from her menu. “This is on the household account.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“It should be. It means you’re not paying.”

“It means I’m eating food that costs more than my rent.”

She looked up then. Her purple eyes met mine across the table.

“Isaiah,” she said. “You work for my family. You’ve been performing adequately. Consider this a benefit of employment.”

Adequately. There was that word again.

“You know,” I said, “most people would just say ’good job’ instead of ’performing adequately.’”

“Most people have lower standards than I do.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“It’s supposed to make you understand that when I say adequate, I mean it as a compliment.” She returned her attention to the menu. “Now order something before Marco returns and you panic.”

I looked down at my menu. The words blurred together. Housemade pasta. Seasonal vegetables. Grilled fish. Everything sounded expensive and complicated and like it belonged to a world I wasn’t part of.

But I was part of it now. At least temporarily.

I picked something that sounded good and didn’t have too many words I couldn’t pronounce.

Marco returned with our drinks and Vivienne ordered for both of us with the kind of ease that came from doing this a hundred times before. He wrote everything down and disappeared again.

The VIP room fell quiet. Just me and Vivienne and the sound of SoHo traffic filtering through the window.

“Thank you,” I said.

She looked up from her phone. “For what?”

“Lunch.”

“You’re welcome,” she said quietly.