Chapter 235: [4.53] What You Said in Your Sleep

Professional. She needed to be professional.

Vivienne sat up. Extracted herself from his lap with movements that should have been efficient but came out clumsy instead. Her cape tangled around her shoulders. Her legs didn’t cooperate, still heavy with sleep and the strange reluctance to leave his warmth. She ended up halfway between the seat and his lap, one knee pressed against his thigh, hands braced on his shoulders for balance.

This was worse.

Much worse.

Now she was straddling him, face inches from his, her gown hiked up enough to expose her stockings to mid-thigh. The position was compromising in about seventeen different ways, each one guaranteed to send Camille into cardiac arrest if she ever found out.

Isaiah’s hands moved to her hips. Steadied her. His grip was firm, sure, like he’d done this before. Like supporting tipsy heiresses in the back of cars was a skill he’d developed somewhere in his mysterious past.

His thumbs brushed against her hipbones through the silk. The touch was probably innocent. Practical.

It didn’t feel innocent.

Heat shot through her core, pooling low in her belly in a way that made her breath catch. This was dangerous. This was the kind of heat that led to bad decisions, to headlines, to everything she’d worked for crumbling because she couldn’t control herself around a boy who probably saw her as just another spoiled rich girl.

"Easy," Isaiah murmured. His voice was still rough. Sleep and something else she couldn’t name. "I’ve got you."

The words hit her like a physical blow. When was the last time someone had said that to her? I’ve got you. Not ’you need to handle this’ or ’this is your responsibility now’ or ’the company depends on your decision.’

Just: I’ve got you.

Simple. Honest. True.

Isaiah helped her settle onto the seat beside him instead of on top of him. The motion was careful, gentle, like she was something fragile that might break if handled roughly. His hands lingered for a moment longer than necessary before falling away.

The loss of his warmth was immediate. Total. Like stepping from a heated room into winter air.

Vivienne wanted to climb back onto his lap. Press her face against his chest. Fall asleep again where the dreams were soft and someone held her like she mattered more than quarterly reports.

Instead, she smoothed her skirt. Fixed her hair. Found her mask—metaphorical and literal—and slid it back into place.

"Thank you for the ride," she said. Her voice was crisp. Formal. Perfect. Every word pronounced with the precision Camille had drilled into her since childhood. "That will be all for tonight."

Isaiah’s expression went flat. The warmth that had been there when he woke drained away completely, replaced by something cold and distant. Professional.

She’d hurt him.

The realization hit her like a slap. She’d taken his gentleness, his unconscious trust, and thrown it back in his face with corporate politeness and dismissal.

"Right." He reached for the door handle. His movements were sharp now. Efficient. The lazy grace from before was gone, replaced by something harder. "Of course."

The door opened. Cool night air rushed in, carrying the scent of autumn and old money—perfectly maintained lawns and imported flowers that bloomed out of season because the Valentine family could afford to make spring happen in October.

Isaiah climbed out, stretched, his spine cracking audibly. Even that simple motion looked different now. Guarded. Like he was putting distance between himself and the car, between himself and her.

Vivienne wanted to call him back. Wanted to explain that the walls were necessary, that if she didn’t rebuild them immediately they’d crumble completely and she’d do something catastrophically stupid like kiss him again in front of her sisters. Wanted to tell him that the distance wasn’t about him, it was about her, about the impossible position she was in, about the way her heart hammered against her ribs every time he looked at her like she was more than just another responsibility.

She said nothing.

Iris scrambled out next, yawning and rubbing her eyes like the child she still was despite her attempts at teenage sophistication. Her costume was wrinkled, her fake fangs lost somewhere in the car, but she looked content in the way only someone who’d had a genuinely good time could manage.

Cassidy followed without a word, slamming her door hard enough to make the whole car shake. The sound echoed off the manor’s facade, sharp and angry and full of all the things she couldn’t say. Or wouldn’t say. Cassidy had always been better at expressing feelings through destruction than words.

Harlow twisted in her seat. Looked back at Vivienne with those enormous purple eyes that missed nothing, that saw straight through every carefully constructed wall to whatever messy truth lay beneath.

"You okay?" she asked softly.

"Perfectly fine."

"Liar."

Vivienne’s mask cracked. Slightly. Enough that Harlow could see through it, could glimpse the exhausted girl underneath who was barely holding herself together.

"I’m tired," Vivienne admitted. "That’s all."

"You called him Papa."

The world stopped.

Vivienne’s blood went cold. Then hot. Then cold again, like her body couldn’t decide whether to fight or flee from this revelation.

"What?"

"In your sleep." Harlow’s voice was gentle. Too gentle. The kind of gentleness that broke things, that made walls crumble and secrets spill out like blood from a wound. "You said ’I miss you, Papa.’ And then you held Isaiah tighter."

Vivienne’s hands twisted together in her lap. Nails digging into palms hard enough to leave crescents in her skin. The pain was good. Grounding. Real in a way that the last few hours felt like they might not be.

"I was dreaming."

"I know." Harlow reached back. Squeezed Vivienne’s knee with fingers that were still paint-stained from some art project, still young enough to offer comfort without calculation. "It’s okay to miss him."

"Missing him doesn’t bring him back."

The words came out harder than she’d intended. Sharp enough to cut, to draw blood from both of them.

"No," Harlow said quietly. "But it means we remember."

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? Remembering. Because forgetting would be easier. Forgetting wouldn’t wake her up at three in the morning with the phantom scent of cedar and the echo of his laugh. Forgetting wouldn’t make board meetings feel like betrayal every time she made a decision he might have questioned.

Forgetting wouldn’t make her mistake some other boy’s kindness for the unconditional love she’d lost.

"We should go inside," Vivienne said. Her voice was steady now. Controlled. The perfect Valentine daughter reasserting herself over whatever weak thing had cried in Isaiah’s arms. "It’s late."