Four Of A Kind-Chapter 164: [3.66] What If?

I take the folder. Set it down on the desk without opening it.

"Depends."

"On?"

You know what? No.

Three weeks. Three weeks of navigating whatever the hell this situation is. Four identical sisters. One mystery kiss. A contract that’s probably getting terminated any day now. My mom texting from California like she didn’t steal grocery money and abandon us. Cassidy’s test that I already know she bombed despite working harder than anyone else in her life.

I’m out of patience for corporate doublespeak.

"Do you want me to be your date to this thing tomorrow? Yes or no?"

Vivienne’s expression does something complicated. Her hands freeze on her tablet mid-swipe. Her lips part slightly like I just spoke ancient Greek instead of plain English.

The silence stretches so long I can hear the grandfather clock in the hallway down the hall.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

"That’s." She stops. Starts again. "That’s not what I asked."

"Yeah it is."

"I said you’d be with me the entire night as my assistant."

"Right. But would I be your assistant or would I be your date?"

Her cheeks flush rose-colored. Real color, spreading from her cheekbones down to her neck. On Vivienne Valentine, who once delivered a twenty-minute evisceration of a marketing pitch that left the presenting executive visibly shaking by the end. Who stared down a board member twice her age without blinking. Who treats emotions like they’re inefficient use of processing power.

"There is a substantive difference between those two roles."

"I’m aware."

"Then which one are you proposing?"

Her fingertips tap against the tablet screen. A single tap. Another. Then a third after too long a pause. The cadence is wrong. She’s buying time to think, which means I’ve already won this round. Vivienne Valentine doesn’t buy time. She owns it.

"Not complicated," I point out. "Straightforward question."

"Your perception of straightforward is deeply flawed."

"Two possible answers exist. Select one."

"You’re deliberately oversimplifying a nuanced situation."

"I’m removing the corporate jargon. You could attempt the same approach."

Vivienne rises from her chair fast enough that it rolls backward until it connects with the wall behind her desk. She crosses to the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the east gardens. Her arms fold across her chest. Every line of her posture screams defensive, like she’s physically bracing herself against the question I just asked.

"This entire conversation violates professional boundaries."

"Most likely."

"You are employed by my family."

"Correct."

"My mother would revoke your contract within the hour if she suspected."

"Suspected what specifically?"

No response. Vivienne keeps her gaze fixed on the grounds below where the late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the manicured lawns. The light catches the red in her hair, turning it almost copper. Her reflection in the window glass shows her jaw working, teeth probably clenched.

The intelligent choice would be leaving. Exit this study, commit the gala timeline to memory like the professional I’m supposedly being paid to be, appear tomorrow evening in whatever borrowed formalwear gets provided, maintain the regulation three-foot distance while she circulates among fashion journalists and luxury retail executives. Smile politely. Hand her things when needed. Be invisible.

That’s the play that protects the paycheck.

The strategy that avoids complications.

The smart move.

Instead I get up from the chair and cross to where she’s standing. I stop roughly two feet to her left side, just inside her peripheral vision. Close enough that she knows I’m there but not so close that she can’t escape if she wants to.

"Vivienne."

"Stop talking."

"You started this conversation. Finish it."

She turns her head slightly. Not enough to actually look at me. Just enough that I can see her profile against the sunset, all sharp angles and perfect features and the kind of composure that’s two seconds from cracking.

"What do you want me to say?"

"The truth would be nice."

"The truth is complicated."

"So simplify it."

"I can’t just." She stops. Her jaw works like she’s physically fighting the words, like they’re trying to escape and she’s wrestling them back down her throat. "It’s not that simple when you work for my family and my mother already thinks you’re interesting and interesting to Camille Valentine means either very useful or very dangerous."

"Which am I?"

"I don’t know yet."

Fair enough.

I lean against the wall next to her window. Close enough to be in her peripheral vision. Far enough to give her space if she needs it. The plaster is cool against my shoulder blade through my shirt.

"Here’s what I think," I say. "I think you’ve been adjusting my collar for three weeks and calling it quality control. I think you keep finding reasons to put your hands on me and pretending it’s professional critique. I think you told me if you wanted to complicate things, I’d know."

Her breathing changes. Gets shallower. I watch her chest rise and fall beneath that perfectly pressed blouse.

"So here’s my question. Are you complicating things? Yes or no?"

Vivienne finally turns to face me. Fully turns, shoulders square, like she’s preparing for a board meeting instead of a conversation. Her purple eyes meet mine head-on.

"What if I said yes?"

"Then I’d ask why."

"Because you’re." She pauses. Chooses her next words with the same care most people use when defusing bombs. "Adequate."

I laugh. Can’t help it. The sound comes out rougher than I intend. "Adequate."

"Yes."

"That’s the worst compliment I’ve ever received."

"It’s not a compliment. It’s an assessment."

"Right. So to clarify. You’re potentially complicating things because I’m adequately mediocre?"

Her mouth twitches. Almost a smile. Almost. "I didn’t say mediocre."

"You said adequate. That’s literally the definition."

"Adequate means meeting the required standard."

"Which is a very romantic way to say barely acceptable."

"I didn’t say romantic."

"No. You didn’t." I watch her carefully. Study the way her fingers curl against her forearms, the slight tension in her shoulders. "You’ve been dancing around it for weeks."

"I don’t dance."

"Vivienne."

"Isaiah."

We stare at each other.

Her tablet buzzes on the desk behind her. Once. Twice. She doesn’t even glance at it. That’s how I know this conversation matters.

Vivienne Valentine never ignores her tablet.

Never.

"Tomorrow," she says finally. "At the launch party. If someone asks who you are, what should I say?"

"Your assistant."

"And if they ask why my assistant looks like that?" Her gaze drops to my chest, then back up. Slower than necessary. "In a custom suit that costs more than most people’s rent?"

"Then you say Valentine Holdings believes in presentation."

"And if they ask why I keep looking at you?"