Four Of A Kind

Chapter 90: [2.65] Dinner with the Valentines is a Spectator Sport

Sabrina watched Mother take her first sip of soup.

The spoon rose. Paused at Mother’s lips. Disappeared into her mouth with the kind of grace that could only come from decades of practice or complete indifference to human warmth.

Mother set the spoon down without a sound. Crystal against porcelain, perfectly silent.

Across the table, Isaiah had frozen mid-reach for his own spoon. Smart boy. He’d already figured out the most important rule of Valentine family dinners: never be the first to move.

Sabrina picked up her spoon. The soup was French onion, which meant Chef Laurent had prepared something safe and universally acceptable. Mother approved of safe choices during first impressions.

“Your family, Mr. Angelo,” Mother repeated. Her voice carried the temperature of absolute zero. “I’m waiting.”

Isaiah’s shoulders relaxed by approximately three millimeters. Sabrina noticed. Her sisters probably noticed too, though Harlow was doing an admirable job pretending to be fascinated by her napkin while Cassidy stared at the ceiling like it contained escape routes.

Vivienne sat perfectly still to Mother’s right. Her posture could have been measured with a ruler.

“I have a younger sister,” Isaiah said. His voice stayed level. Calm. “Iris. She’s fourteen. Lives in Philadelphia.”

Mother’s spoon paused halfway to the bowl.

“Your parents?”

“Not in the picture.”

Three sentences. Concise. No elaboration.

Sabrina almost smiled. Someone had briefed him well. Her eyes flicked to Vivienne, whose expression remained perfectly neutral while her left hand gripped her napkin like it owed her money.

Interesting.

“I see.” Mother took another sip of soup. “And you’re raising her yourself?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“While attending Hartwell Academy on scholarship and working. How industrious.”

The word industrious dripped from Mother’s mouth like poison wrapped in silk. To anyone else, it would have sounded like a compliment. Sabrina knew better. Mother considered industriousness the bare minimum requirement for existing in her presence.

“I do what needs doing,” Isaiah said.

Sabrina reached for her water glass and took a slow sip, watching Mother’s face over the rim.

Mother’s purple eyes narrowed by exactly one degree. Not enough for Isaiah to notice. Enough for her daughters to recognize that he’d just been upgraded from irrelevant background character to something worth studying.

“Vivienne tells me you’ve made progress with Cassidy’s academic performance.”

Cassidy’s fork scraped against her plate.

“I wouldn’t call it progress yet,” Isaiah said. “We’re still figuring out what works.”

“Seven tutors attempted the same approach. All of them failed.” Mother set her spoon down. “What makes you different, Mr. Angelo?”

The air in the room changed. Sabrina felt it shift like a drop in atmospheric pressure before a storm. This was the real test. Mother didn’t care about Isaiah’s family or his industriousness or any of the surface questions she’d asked.

She cared about results. Specifically, whether Isaiah could deliver them.

Isaiah met Mother’s gaze directly. Not challenging. Not submissive. Just meeting her eyes like they were equals having a conversation instead of an employee being evaluated by the CEO who could end his career with a phone call.

“The other tutors tried to fix Cassidy,” he said. “I’m trying to understand her instead.”

Silence.

Complete, perfect, crystalline silence.

Harlow had stopped breathing. Cassidy’s fork hung suspended in midair. Vivienne’s napkin was going to need reconstructive surgery.

Sabrina took another sip of water and waited.

Mother picked up her spoon again. Took a bite of soup. Chewed slowly. Swallowed.

“Understanding is a luxury reserved for people with time to waste,” Mother said. “I’m paying you to produce results. Can you deliver them?”

“I can try.”

Wrong answer.

Sabrina knew it the moment the words left his mouth. Mother didn’t want effort. She wanted guarantees. Promises. Absolutes.

“Trying suggests the possibility of failure, Mr. Angelo.”

“Everything suggests the possibility of failure. That’s what makes it worth doing.”

Sabrina’s hand froze on her glass.

Did he just. Did Isaiah just imply that Mother’s entire philosophy of demanding guaranteed results was fundamentally flawed?

Cassidy had gone completely still. Not the angry stillness from earlier. Something different. She was staring at Isaiah like he’d just grown a second head or announced he could fly.

Harlow looked like she might cry or laugh or possibly both at the same time.

Vivienne had stopped breathing entirely.

Mother set her spoon down for the second time. The sound echoed through the dining room like a gunshot.

“Alright. Vivienne, please pass the salt.”

The conversation was over.

Just like that. No warning. No transition. Mother had delivered her verdict and moved on to the next item on her internal agenda.

Mrs. Tanaka appeared with the second course. Some kind of fish that probably had a French name Sabrina couldn’t pronounce. The housekeeper set plates down in front of each person with mechanical efficiency, her face revealing nothing.

But when Mrs. Tanaka passed behind Isaiah’s chair, she gave him the smallest nod.

Approval. Or possibly condolence. Hard to tell with Mrs. Tanaka.

Sabrina studied Isaiah while pretending to focus on her fish. He’d picked up his fork and knife with reasonable competence, holding them correctly but not pretentiously. Someone had taught him basic table manners, probably through necessity rather than formal training.

He cut a piece of fish. Took a bite. Chewed normally instead of making a performance out of it.

Mother watched him over the rim of her wine glass.

“Harlow,” Mother said without looking away from Isaiah. “How is the fall campaign progressing?”

Harlow jumped slightly in her seat. “It’s going really well! The photoshoot last week went amazing and the team said the engagement numbers are already looking super promising and we’re planning this whole social media push with behind the scenes content and maybe some TikTok collabs if you approve them and—”

“Breathe, darling.”

Harlow stopped talking mid-sentence. Inhaled. Exhaled.

“The metrics are satisfactory,” Mother said. “Continue as planned. Vivienne, the Lumière partnership?”

“Finalized yesterday. Contracts are with legal for final review. Launch is scheduled for October fifteenth.”

“The timeline is acceptable. Cassidy.”

Cassidy’s head snapped up from her plate. Her purple eyes went wide for half a second before she caught herself and arranged her face into something approximating neutrality.

“What.”

“Your tennis coach mentioned you’ve missed three practices this month.”

Cassidy’s jaw tightened. “I had other commitments.”

“Tennis is a commitment. One you made when you joined the team.”

“I’m not even officially on the team. I just show up sometimes.”

“Then perhaps you should make a decision about whether you’re committed or simply wasting everyone’s time.”