Four Of A Kind Novel Chapter 85: [2.60] There Are Three Kinds of Water, and I Am

Chapter 85: [2.60] There Are Three Kinds of Water, and I Am Out of My Depth

"Not pity," I said. "I can relate sowhat."

She studied my face for a long mont, like she was trying to determine whether I was lying. Then sothing in her expression softened.

"It’s not lonely," she said quietly. "It’s simply how things are. Mother has responsibilities. The company doesn’t run itself. We understand that."

The way she said it sounded rehearsed. Like she’d told herself this story so many tis she’d started to believe it.

I decided not to push. We’d reached the edge of what Vivienne was willing to discuss, and I wasn’t suicidal enough to cross that line.

The car pulled up in front of a restaurant with dark wood accents and warm lighting spilling onto the sidewalk. Osteria Morini. The driver opened Vivienne’s door first, then walked around to let

out. I grabbed the portfolio and followed Vivienne inside.

The hostess saw us coming and her face went through several emotions in rapid succession. Confusion. Panic. Relief that we weren’t an angry mob. Then back to panic when she realized we were probably still important.

"Miss Valentine?" she said, her voice higher than it probably should have been.

"Yes." Vivienne’s tone carried absolute certainty.

"Right this way! Your table is ready!"

The hostess grabbed two leather-bound nus and practically sprinted toward the back of the restaurant. We followed at a more reasonable pace. I caught glimpses of the main dining room as we passed. White tablecloths. Expensive wine bottles. People who looked like they’d never worried about rent in their entire lives.

Then we turned down a hallway and the hostess opened a door to reveal the VIP room.

Calling it a room felt inadequate. It was more like a private dining experience that had sohow manifested inside a restaurant. Dark wood paneling. Soft lighting from actual candles instead of fake ones. A table set for two with crystal glasses and cloth napkins folded into shapes I didn’t recognize. A window overlooking the street below, with curtains that could be closed for privacy.

The whole setup scread "people who have more money than God eat here."

"Your server will be with you montarily," the hostess said, backing toward the door like she was afraid to turn her back on us. "Please let us know if you need anything at all."

She disappeared before Vivienne could respond.

I set the portfolio down on an empty chair and looked at Vivienne.

"This is insane," I said.

"This is standard." She settled into her seat with the sa perfect posture she maintained everywhere. "Sit."

I sat.

The chair was more comfortable than my bed at ho. The table probably cost more than my entire apartnt’s furniture combined. The view of SoHo through the window looked like sothing from a movie about rich people doing rich people things.

And here I was. Scholarship kid from Kensington. Sitting across from a seventeen-year-old who ran a fashion empire in her spare ti.

My life had gotten really weird really fast.

"You’re staring," Vivienne said.

"I’m processing."

"Process faster. Our server will arrive in approximately two minutes and I’d prefer you not look like a deer in headlights when they do."

I pulled myself together and straightened in my chair. "Better?"

She examined

with critical eyes. Then she reached across the table and adjusted my collar.

Again.

Her fingers brushed against my neck. Again.

"Better," she said, pulling her hand back quickly. "Now you look like you belong here instead of like soone who wandered in off the street."

"I did wander in off the street," I pointed out. "Technically."

"Technically you’re my assistant and you accompanied

to a business lunch." Vivienne opened her nu with smooth efficiency. "There’s a difference."

Right. Business lunch.

Except this didn’t feel like business. This felt like sothing else entirely. Sothing I probably shouldn’t think too hard about while sitting across from one of my employers in a VIP room that we’d accidentally obtained through mistaken identity.

The door opened and a server entered carrying a wine list. He looked young, maybe mid-twenties, with the kind of nervous energy that suggested this was his first ti serving in the VIP room.

"Good afternoon, Miss Valentine," he said, his voice only shaking slightly. "My na is Marco and I’ll be taking care of you today. Can I start you off with sothing to drink?"

Vivienne glanced at . "Isaiah?"

"Water’s fine," I said.

"Sparkling or still?"

Of course there were options for water.

"Still."

"I’ll have the San Pellegrino," Vivienne said. "And please bring us the chef’s recomndations for today. We’ll order shortly."

Marco nodded so hard I worried about his neck. "Of course! Right away!"

He vanished.

Vivienne opened her nu and began reading with the sa focus she applied to everything else. I opened mine and imdiately regretted it.

The prices weren’t listed.

That ant they were expensive enough that people who ate here didn’t care about prices.

I tried not to think about the fact that I was holding a nu where a single appetizer probably equaled my weekly grocery budget.

"Order whatever you’d like," Vivienne said without looking up from her nu. "This is on the household account."

"That’s not reassuring."

"It should be. It ans you’re not paying."

"It ans I’m eating food that costs more than my rent."

She looked up then. Her purple eyes t mine across the table.

"Isaiah," she said. "You work for my family. You’ve been performing adequately. Consider this a benefit of employnt."

Adequately. There was that word again.

"You know," I said, "most people would just say ’good job’ instead of ’performing adequately.’"

"Most people have lower standards than I do."

"Is that supposed to make

feel better?"

"It’s supposed to make you understand that when I say adequate, I an it as a complint." She returned her attention to the nu. "Now order sothing before Marco returns and you panic."

I looked down at my nu. The words blurred together. Housemade pasta. Seasonal vegetables. Grilled fish. Everything sounded expensive and complicated and like it belonged to a world I wasn’t part of.

But I was part of it now. At least temporarily.

I picked sothing that sounded good and didn’t have too many words I couldn’t pronounce.

Marco returned with our drinks and Vivienne ordered for both of us with the kind of ease that ca from doing this a hundred tis before. He wrote everything down and disappeared again.

The VIP room fell quiet. Just

and Vivienne and the sound of SoHo traffic filtering through the window.

"Thank you," I said.

She looked up from her phone. "For what?"

"Lunch."

"You’re welco," she said quietly.