Four Of A Kind - Chapter 176: [3.78] My Date, Isaiah Angelo
Chapter 176: [3.78] My Date, Isaiah Angelo
The cameras kept flashing. Vivienne blinked through the white spots dancing across her vision.
Isaiah’s hand was warm. His palm pressed against hers. Solid. Real.
She’d expected him to let go by now. Most people did. The photographers were vultures circling, and smart people knew to keep their distance from the Valentine spotlight.
But he didn’t pull away.
His grip stayed firm.
She glanced sideways at him. Just for a second.
He was smiling. Kind of. More like grimacing while trying to look pleasant. His eyes squinted against the flashes. His jaw was tight. The expression was completely wrong for what the photographers probably wanted.
But god, it was honest.
Real nerves. Real discomfort. Not the practiced smile she’d worn ten thousand times.
Something warm bloomed in her chest.
Wait.
She wanted to kiss him.
Right now. On this stupid red carpet with a hundred cameras pointed at them.
That was. Problematic.
Very problematic.
“Miss Valentine! Over here!”
“Vivienne! Who’s your date?”
“Turn this way!”
“Give us a smile!”
Vivienne’s autopilot kicked in. She released Isaiah’s hand, turned toward the cameras, and angled her body at exactly forty-five degrees. Her father had taught her this angle years ago. It made her waist look smaller. Her legs longer. The dress draped perfectly.
She smiled. The real one. Not the camera one.
She couldn’t help it.
Isaiah stood beside her. Still awkward. Still slightly uncomfortable.
Still there.
“Vivienne! Is this your boyfriend?”
“Who’s the mystery man?”
“What’s his name?”
Her PR training demanded she deflect. Smile. Say nothing important.
Instead, she moved closer to Isaiah. Just slightly.
Let them make their own assumptions.
A photographer with particularly aggressive energy pushed forward. “Miss Valentine! Pose with your date! Put your hand on his shoulder!”
She did.
Isaiah stiffened. Just for a heartbeat.
Then he relaxed.
His hand found her waist. Light. Respectful.
The cameras exploded again.
“Beautiful! One more! Look at each other!”
They turned. Their eyes met.
His were nervous. Warm brown with those green flecks she’d memorized.
Hers were probably revealing too much.
The photographer kept shouting instructions, but Vivienne stopped hearing him.
Just Isaiah. Looking at her like she was a person wearing an expensive dress rather than a brand wearing skin.
“We should go inside,” she said. Quiet. Just for him.
“Yeah.”
They walked up the museum steps together. The crowd’s noise faded behind them as they reached the doors.
Inside, the entry hall stretched ahead. Marble floors. Vaulted ceilings. Art installations costing more than cars.
Isaiah’s hand slipped from hers.
She felt the absence immediately.
But then.
His palm settled against the small of her back. Light pressure. Guiding. Protective.
She glanced at him.
“What are you doing?”
“Leading you.” He kept his eyes forward. “At the bar, some of the guys would. When they escorted high-profile women to their tables. It’s.” He paused. “Polite, I guess?”
“Polite.”
“Yeah.”
Her skin burned where his hand touched. The burgundy silk might as well have been paper.
“I see.”
They walked through the crowd. Other guests were already mingling. Fashion editors in sharp blazers. Designers in experimental pieces. Retail buyers with calculating eyes.
This was Vivienne’s element.
She straightened. Let the mask settle into place.
Time to work.
Margaret, editor-in-chief at Vogue, appeared first. Silver hair cut in a severe bob. The kind of woman who made or destroyed careers with three sentences in her column.
“Vivienne.” Margaret’s smile was professional. “You look stunning.”
“Thank you, Margaret. You know my. Date. Isaiah Angelo.”
Isaiah’s hand left her back. He extended it for a handshake.
Margaret took it. Her eyes swept over him. Evaluating.
“Angelo,” she said. “What do you do?”
“I’m a student. Senior year.”
“At?”
“Hartwell.”
“Mm.” Margaret’s expression shifted. Recognition. “And what are your interests?”
This was the moment most people stumbled. The part where they tried to impress her with business connections or family names.
Isaiah just. Talked.
“I paint,” he said. “Nothing professional. Just. Hobby stuff. Oils mostly. Some acrylics when I’m feeling reckless.”
Margaret’s eyebrow arched. “Reckless.”
“Yeah. Acrylics dry fast. Can’t fix mistakes as easily.”
“Interesting philosophy.” She pulled a business card from her clutch. Handed it to him. “I’d like to see your work sometime. Email me.”
“Sure.”
Margaret nodded to Vivienne. “Smart choice.”
Then she was gone. Absorbed back into the crowd.
Isaiah stared at the card.
“That was Margaret,” Vivienne said.
“I see.”
“She doesn’t give her card to just anyone.”
“I see again.”
A waiter passed with champagne flutes. Isaiah took one. Handed it to Vivienne. Took one for himself.
She watched him drink. “You’re eighteen.”
“Nobody’s checking.”
Fair point.
The next hour became a blur of introductions. Designers. Buyers. Influencers who’d somehow scored invitations despite Vivienne’s protests.
Isaiah stayed beside her. His hand returned to her back when they walked. Disappeared when they stopped to talk.
People kept asking about him.
Every time, he deflected smoothly. Mentioned painting. Mentioned school. Never mentioned Philadelphia. Never mentioned working two jobs or his sister or the fact that he’d been their employee three weeks ago.
He played the part perfectly.
The problem was the cards.
Women kept giving him cards.
“You have an interesting energy,” some gallery owner in head-to-toe Dior purred. She pressed her card into his hand. Let her fingers linger. “Call me if you’d like to discuss showing your work.”
“Thanks.”
Another woman. Younger. Maybe twenty-five. Worked for Christie’s auction house.
“I love discovering new talent.” She smiled. Touched his arm. “Here’s my number. Text me sometime.”
“I’ll think about it.”
A fashion photographer. Probably thirty. Gorgeous in that effortless French way.
“You’d be perfect for a project I’m developing.” She handed him her card. “Natural. Raw. Unpolished in the best way.”
“I’m not really.”
“Trust me.” She winked. “I have an eye for these things.”
Vivienne’s jaw hurt from smiling through it.
Her hand found Isaiah’s arm. Possessive. Obvious.
“We should say hello to the Lumière team,” she said.
“Right.”
They moved away. The photographer watched them go. Her eyes lingering on Isaiah’s shoulders.
“She was flirting with you,” Vivienne said.
“I know.”
“And you just. Let her.”
“Was I supposed to be rude?”
“You’re supposed to.” She stopped. What was she supposed to say? You’re mine tonight?
That was insane.
Completely insane.
“Never mind.”
