Four Of A Kind - Chapter 179: [3.81] The Other Shoe

Chapter 179: [3.81] The Other Shoe

Well, fuck.

My face didn’t move. Years of bartending for rich assholes who thought tipping was optional had given me a decent poker face. But my ears? Traitors. They got hot.

“I see.” She sipped her vodka. “And which one was it?”

“With all due respect—”

“Ah.” She gave a small nod. “You don’t know.”

I blinked. Wait, what?

Her lips curled into something between a smirk and a sneer. “My daughters are identical quadruplets, Mr. Angelo. And while they each have… cultivated their differences, I wonder if you could truly tell them apart in the dark.”

Something cold slithered down my spine. The implication hung in the air between us.

“Mrs. Valentine, I—”

“You care about them.” It wasn’t a question. “That’s the problem.”

I didn’t deny it.

“That makes you dangerous,” she continued. “More dangerous than some fortune-hunter who only wants their money. Money can be protected with contracts. Hearts are messier.”

My phone buzzed again. Third time. Probably important. I ignored it, keeping my gaze locked on Camille Valentine’s calculating eyes.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Camille said, swirling her vodka slowly. “You will continue your employment with us. Tutoring. Driving. Whatever my daughters need.” Her voice was smooth as expensive silk, but I could hear the steel underneath.

I waited for the other shoe to drop. There’s always another shoe with rich people. They never offer something without taking twice as much back.

“But you will maintain proper boundaries. No more… kissing.” She paused, letting the word hang between us. “No hand-holding. No dates to galas.”

“That’s Vivienne’s decision,” I said, surprising myself with how steady my voice sounded. My heart was hammering against my ribs, but I wouldn’t give Camille the satisfaction of seeing me flinch.

The quartet shifted to something classical that I vaguely recognized but couldn’t name—Mozart or Bach or whoever rich people played when plotting someone’s downfall. Just background noise for the wealthy.

“So what happens if I don’t agree?” I asked, meeting her gaze. No point pretending we weren’t having this conversation.

She smiled. It wasn’t nice. More like a predator showing teeth before the kill. “Tell me, how is your sister doing? Iris, correct? Fourteen years old. Bright girl. Talented artist.”

My blood froze in my veins. Not Iris. Anyone but Iris.

“I understand she’s applying to Hartwell for next year,” Camille continued, examining her manicured nails casually. “Very competitive process. Thousands apply for those scholarships. Such a shame if her brother’s… inappropriate behavior… reflected poorly on her application.”

The invisible knife she’d been holding finally plunged between my ribs. Of course she knew about Iris. Of course she’d done her homework. That’s what people like Camille Valentine do—they learn exactly where to press to cause maximum pain with minimum effort.

I could feel my heartbeat in my throat as cold reality washed through me. This wasn’t just about me anymore. I’d been stupid to think it ever was. People like the Valentines don’t just see you—they see everyone connected to you, everyone you care about, every possible leverage point.

And Iris was my biggest weakness. My only real weakness.

Camille watched my reaction with the clinical interest of someone observing bacteria under a microscope. She didn’t need to say more. The threat was crystal clear: Step back from my daughters or watch your sister’s future burn.

I felt my fingers curl into fists under the table, nails digging into my palms. The pain helped me stay focused. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Her smile remained fixed, perfect as a photograph. “I’m simply stating facts.”

“Leave Iris out of this.” My voice came out low, almost a growl.

“Then leave my daughters alone.” Her voice hardened. “Emotionally, at least.”

I stared at her. I wanted to tell her to go to hell. I wanted to walk out and never look back.

But Iris. Fuck.

My phone buzzed again. Fourth time. I pulled it out, checked the screen.

Four texts from Vivienne:

Where are you?

Still in the bathroom

Need help

Please

That last one did it. Vivienne Valentine doesn’t say please.

I stood up. “Mrs. Valentine, I need to check on your daughter.”

“We’re not finished.”

“We are for now.”

Something in my tone made her eyes narrow. “Your sister—”

“Will get into Hartwell on her own merits,” I cut her off. “And if she doesn’t, we’ll figure something else out. We always do.”

I walked away before she could respond. The women’s restroom was down a marble hallway, past ancient Greek statues with missing arms and perfectly sculpted abs. The museum had separate bathrooms for regular guests and VIPs. I headed for the VIP ones.

A security guard stepped in front of me. “Sir, this area—”

I pulled out the VIP badge Vivienne had given me. “I’m with the Valentine party.”

He stepped aside.

The women’s restroom door was heavy. Mahogany, probably. I knocked.

“Vivienne?”

No answer.

I knocked again. “It’s Isaiah.”

Nothing.

Shit. I looked around. No other women nearby to check for me. Security guy was watching with raised eyebrows.

“Vivienne, I’m coming in.”

I pushed the door open slowly, ready to retreat if anyone screamed.

The air inside was warm and humid, thick with the scent of lilies from a massive floral arrangement. A plush velvet settee sat in one corner, and the soft, ambient music from the gala was barely audible here.

“Vivienne?”

A small sniff came from one of the stalls.

I walked over. The door was closed but not latched.

“Vivienne?” I pushed it open gently.

She sat on the closed toilet lid, her burgundy dress pooling around her feet. Her makeup was intact, but her eyes were red-rimmed. She looked up at me with those purple eyes that haunted my dreams.

“You’re in the women’s restroom,” she said.

“You texted me.”

“I didn’t think you’d actually come in.”

I shrugged. “You said please.”

A small laugh escaped her. She wiped under her eyes with her pinky finger, careful not to smudge her mascara.

“My mother saw us,” she said.

“Yeah. We had a chat.”

Her eyes widened. “She talked to you? What did she say?”

I hesitated. If I told Vivienne that her mother had threatened Iris’s future, she’d go nuclear. And as satisfying as watching Camille get verbally eviscerated by her daughter might be, it wouldn’t help anyone.

“The usual. I’m beneath you. I’m using you. She’ll destroy me if I hurt you. Standard protective mom stuff.”

“She’s not protective,” Vivienne said, bitterness lacing her voice. “She’s controlling.”

I leaned against the stall door. “Your speech is in ten minutes.”

“I know.” She checked her watch. “Seven minutes now.”

“Are you ready?”

She closed her eyes. “No.”