Four Of A Kind - Chapter 178: [3.80] Entirely Unsuitable

Chapter 178: [3.80] Entirely Unsuitable

I slumped in my chair at the fancy museum gala, watching the crowd of rich people circulate like sharks smelling blood in the water. Five minutes since Vivienne followed her mother out, and the whispers had already reached fever pitch. Fashion industry gossip moved faster than New York subway rats when pizza hit the tracks.

“Valentine heiress brings scholarship boy as date.”

“Camille’s furious.”

“Did you see her face?”

Those same photographers who’d been calling Vivienne’s name minutes ago had pivoted to capturing reactions from anyone who’d speak. A tall woman in Gucci looked at me with such naked pity I almost checked if my fly was down.

The chair next to me remained empty. Vivienne’s speech was scheduled in fifteen minutes. Her collection launch speech that she’d practiced for three weeks straight. The one where her voice kept wavering on paragraph four until she’d locked herself in her study to get it right.

I straightened her notecards on the table. Alphabetized them, because that’s how she’d want them.

Okay, I was worried. Sue me.

Not for myself—if I got fired, I’d take the five thousand I’d saved and invest it safely. Maybe bonds. Something boring Vivienne would approve of. But getting fired would hurt Vivienne, and more importantly, destroy Iris’s chance at attending Hartwell next year.

She might act like walking ice, but I’d seen enough cracks to know there was fire underneath.

A waiter offered champagne. I declined. No alcohol when I needed my brain firing at full capacity.

The empty seat beside me pulled away without warning. I looked up, expecting Vivienne, maybe with slightly smudged mascara but otherwise intact.

Instead, Camille Valentine herself settled into the chair, arranging her black gown with the casual grace of someone who’d been photographed at dinner ten thousand times.

The Ice Queen of the fashion world. CEO of Valentine Holdings. Billionaire, widow, mother of quadruplets.

And currently staring at me like I was something stuck to the bottom of her Louboutins.

I straightened my back. Might as well face execution with dignity.

“Good evening, Mrs. Valentine. You look beautiful this evening.”

Her perfect eyebrow arched. “As if there’s any evening I don’t look beautiful.”

“You’re right.” I nodded. “My mistake.”

Silence fell between us. Heavy, awkward silence filled only with the sound of distant chatter and the string quartet murdering Vivaldi in the corner.

Camille just… studied me. Her eyes moved over my face, my suit, my hands, like she was cataloging every flaw and storing them for future destruction. I looked away, then found myself side-eyeing her before returning my gaze forward.

“Do I have something in my hair or what?”

The question slipped out before my brain could strangle it. But surprisingly, it seemed to break whatever intimidation game she was playing.

Her lips curved slightly. “Actually, yes. You have blonde in your black hair.”

My hand went up automatically. The bleached ends from two years ago that I’d never bothered to fix.

“Yeah, well… my sister wanted to see if the color would fit her. Used me as a test subject.”

“Really?” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “How fascinating.”

She didn’t believe me, but whatever. Truth was I’d done it during a particularly stupid teenage rebellion phase, then realized salon visits cost money I didn’t have. So I just… kept it. Waited for it to grow out. Two years later, here we are.

“It looks deliberate,” she continued. “Like you want people to notice the contrast.”

“Not really. Just expensive to fix.”

“Hmm.” She took a sip of what looked like vodka, neat. “So you’ve been tutoring Cassidy.”

I nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

“And driving Harlow.”

“Yes.”

“And organizing Vivienne’s schedule.”

“Also yes.”

“And bringing Sabrina midnight ramen.”

My eyes widened slightly.

“I know everything that happens in my house, Mr. Angelo.” She set her glass down with a soft clink. “What I don’t know is why my daughter brought you here tonight.”

Her hand waved toward my chest. “Why you’re wearing my late husband’s cufflinks.”

I glanced down at the silver cufflinks. Subtle V pattern. Expensive without being flashy.

“I didn’t know they were his,” I said honestly. “She left them with the suit.”

“And you thought nothing of receiving expensive cufflinks from your seventeen-year-old employer?”

I met her eyes. “I thought she wanted me to look presentable for her event.”

“As her what, exactly?”

The question hung between us. What was I to Vivienne? Her employee? Her tutor? Her friend?

Her date?

None of the answers felt safe with Camille Valentine staring me down.

“I believe she called me her guest,” I finally said.

“Guest.” She tapped manicured nails against the table. “And all those photographers calling you her boyfriend?”

“Press exaggerates.”

“Indeed.” She leaned forward. “Let me be direct, Mr. Angelo. I don’t know what game you’re playing with my daughters, but it ends tonight.”

Well, there it was. The firing I’d been expecting since this whole circus started.

“All four of them have been acting strange. Distracted. Emotional.” She said the last word like it tasted bad. “And the common denominator appears to be you.”

I kept my face neutral. Tried to, anyway.

“Cassidy’s grades are improving for the first time in years,” Camille continued. “Harlow actually completed a project on time. Vivienne is…” she paused, searching for words, “softer. And Sabrina—” another pause “—Sabrina is talking. To people other than her sisters.”

Wait. Was she… complimenting me?

“These are good changes,” I ventured.

“They are changes.” She fixed me with those cold eyes. “Changes disrupt established patterns. Disruptions can be beneficial or catastrophic. I haven’t decided which category you fall into yet.”

My phone vibrated in my pocket. I ignored it.

“You come from nothing,” she continued. “A scholarship student with no family connections, no wealth, no standing in society. You live in Philadelphia and commute two hours each way. You work as a bartender in addition to attending school before tutoring my daughters. You are, by all metrics, entirely unsuitable for association with the Valentine name.”

Each word hit like a precisely aimed bullet. Nothing she said was untrue.

“And yet.” She tilted her head. “Yet my daughters seem… attached to you.”

Another vibration from my phone.

“Your point, Mrs. Valentine?”

“My point,” she said, leaning forward, “is that I want to know your intentions.”

I blinked. “My intentions?”

“With my daughters. With my company. With this—” she gestured toward me, “whatever this is you’re doing.”

I nearly laughed. Was this the billionaire equivalent of a shotgun talk?

“My intention was to do the job I was hired for,” I said. “Tutor Cassidy. Drive Harlow. Organize Vivienne’s schedule.”

“And tonight? What’s your intention with Vivienne tonight?”

“My intention tonight is to help Vivienne have a successful launch. To hold her notecards when her hands shake. To stand beside her for photos if that’s what she wants. And to take her home when she’s exhausted from smiling at people who only care about what her Valentine name can do for them.”

Something shifted in Camille’s expression. Not softening, exactly. More like recalculation, as though she were reassessing variables in a complex equation.

“You’re very articulate for a scholarship student,” she remarked, swirling her drink thoughtfully.

“And you’re surprisingly concerned for someone who claims to know everything,” I countered.

Her eyes widened slightly, a momentary crack in her perfect composure. I imagined people rarely spoke to Camille Valentine this way. The powerful rarely encounter contradiction, especially from someone like me – the help, the nobody, the boy from Kensington with the two-toned hair who should know better than to challenge a Valentine.

“I know you fired our previous staff because they followed orders without question,” I continued. “I know you want someone who will tell your daughters no sometimes. I know that’s why Dr. Reyes recommended me for this position in the first place.”

She took another sip of her drink, watching me over the rim. “Patricia Reyes has always had interesting instincts.”

“If you’re going to fire me, Mrs. Valentine, I’d appreciate if you did it after tonight,” I said. “Let Vivienne have her launch. Let her speech go well. Let her have this one night without family drama overshadowing her work.”

Camille set down her glass. “Who said anything about firing you?”

I blinked. “You literally just called me entirely unsuitable.”

“For association with the Valentine name. As a romantic prospect for my daughter.”

Oh. OH.

“That’s not—” I started.

“Isn’t it?” She raised an eyebrow. “I’ve seen how Vivienne looks at you. How you look at her.”

The string quartet finished murdering Vivaldi and moved on to abusing Mozart.

“Mrs. Valentine—”

“But I’ve also seen how Cassidy looks at you,” she continued. “And Harlow. And even Sabrina, in her way.”

My throat went dry.

“Which presents a unique problem,” she said. “One I haven’t encountered before.”

“Mrs. Valentine, I’m just doing my job,” I said, because what else could I say? Yes, I’m kind of into all your daughters but in different ways wasn’t going to fly.

“Your job,” she repeated, voice flat. “Is kissing one of my daughters on the front steps part of your job description, Mr. Angelo?”