Four Of A Kind

Chapter 87: [2.62] Feelings are a Luxury We Can No Longer Afford

The fork in her hand stilled. For a long moment, she didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared at her plate like it contained answers to questions she hadn’t asked yet.

“That’s a dangerous question,” she said finally.

“That’s not an answer.”

She looked up. Her purple eyes were sharp. Calculating. Like she was deciding whether I could be trusted with something real instead of the polished corporate version of herself.

“I don’t know,” she said quietly.

Those three words felt heavier than anything she’d said all day.

“When my father was alive,” she continued, her voice even softer, “he used to tell me I didn’t have to be perfect. That I was enough just being myself.” She paused.

“But himself is dead. And Mother needs someone who can run the company. Someone who understands the business. Someone who won’t let the brand fall apart because they got distracted by feelings or creativity or any of the other things that don’t matter in the end.”

“You think feelings don’t matter?”

“I think feelings are a luxury people like me can’t afford.”

I set my fork down. “That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

Her jaw tightened. “It’s realistic.”

“It’s lonely.”

“Loneliness is also a luxury.” She picked up her wine glass, then seemed to remember it was water and set it back down with more force than necessary. “I have responsibilities. Obligations. A company that employs thousands of people. A brand worth billions of dollars. A mother who expects excellence and three sisters who need someone to hold everything together while they figure out who they want to be.”

“And what about what you want?”

“What I want is irrelevant.”

“No it’s not.”

“Isaiah.” She looked at me directly. “I’m seventeen years old. I run Student Council. I manage million-dollar partnerships. I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in three years. I don’t have time to want things.”

“Everyone wants things.”

“Then I’m very good at ignoring them.”

The silence that followed felt fragile. Like if either of us said the wrong thing, something important would break.

“For what it’s worth,” I said carefully, “I think you’d be good at running the company. But I also think you’d be good at other things too. If you wanted to try them.”

She studied me for a long moment. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. You’re smart. You’re organized. You notice details other people miss. You could probably do anything you wanted if you gave yourself permission.”

“Permission from whom?”

“Yourself.”

Vivienne’s laugh was short and humorless. “You don’t understand how this works.”

“Maybe not. But I understand that you’re a person before you’re a brand. And people need more than work and obligations.”

“That’s very philosophical.”

“That’s very true.”

She didn’t respond. Just went back to her food with mechanical precision. Like eating was another task to complete instead of something to enjoy.

We finished the main course in silence. Marco cleared our plates and asked about dessert. Vivienne declined for both of us.

When he disappeared, she pulled out her phone and checked the time.

“We should go,” she said. “Dinner is at six and Mother hates when people are late.”

Wait.

“Your mother’s going to be there tonight?”

“Of course. It’s Saturday. She’s in New York until Monday.”

Fantastic. Dinner with Camille Valentine. The woman whose mere name made restaurant managers nervous.

I stood and grabbed the portfolio. Vivienne rose with her usual grace, smoothing her dress even though it didn’t have a single wrinkle.

“Thank you,” she said as we walked toward the door. “For lunch. And for the conversation.”

“You paid for lunch.”

“I meant the second part.”

She didn’t wait for my response. Just walked past me into the hallway, her heels clicking against the floor with perfect rhythm.

I followed her out through the restaurant. The main dining room was packed now, full of well-dressed people eating expensive food and probably not thinking about whether they could afford groceries this week.

The town car was waiting outside. The driver opened the door for Vivienne, then walked around to let me in on the other side.

As we pulled away from the curb, I checked my phone. Six missed calls from Iris. A dozen text messages ranging from “ARE YOU ALIVE” to “if you don’t answer me in the next five minutes I’m calling the police.”

I texted back: Still alive. Had lunch with Vivienne. Heading back to the manor now.

Her response came immediately: WAS IT A DATE

No. Business lunch.

Another immediate reply: That’s what people say when it’s a date but they don’t want to admit it’s a date

It wasn’t a date.

My phone buzzed again: okay sure. whatever helps you sleep at night

I put my phone away.

Vivienne was reviewing something on her tablet, her expression focused and controlled. The version of her from lunch, the one who admitted she didn’t know what she wanted, had disappeared completely.

“You’re good at that,” I said.

She looked up. “At what?”

“Switching it off. The real you. Putting the mask back on.”

Her purple eyes narrowed slightly. “It’s not a mask. It’s professionalism.”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so.” She returned her attention to her tablet. “And I suggest you do the same. Mother doesn’t appreciate casual behavior during family dinners.”

“What does she appreciate?”

“Silence. Competence. Staying out of her way.”

Great. This was going to be fun.

The car merged onto the highway heading toward Long Island. The city gradually gave way to suburbs, then to the kind of neighborhoods where houses had gates and security systems worth more than cars.

My phone buzzed again. I ignored it.

Vivienne glanced over. “Your sister?”

“Probably.”

“You should answer her. She’s likely worried.”

“She’s likely making jokes about me seducing billionaire heiresses.”

Vivienne’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in her eyes. Amusement, maybe. Or horror. Hard to tell.

“Is she right?” Vivienne asked.

“About which part?”

“Any of it.”

I looked at her directly. “I’m your employee. That’s all.”

“Good.” She went back to her tablet. “Remember that during dinner.”

“Why?”

“Because Mother has very specific ideas about appropriate relationships between staff and family.” She paused. “And you don’t want to be on the wrong side of those ideas.”

The car turned onto a long driveway. Valentine Manor appeared in the distance, massive and intimidating as ever.

I was about to have dinner with four heiresses and their terrifying CEO mother.

My life had definitely gotten weird.

But at least the pasta had been good.