Chapter 89: [2.64] If She Wanted to Make Things Complicated, I Would Know
I followed Vivienne through the hallway, past the disapproving ancestors and into the east wing. My brain was already cataloging escape routes because this felt like a terrible idea.
"Is this smart?" I asked as she stopped at a door. "What if your mom catches
in your room alone?"
Vivienne turned, one eyebrow raised in that way she had that made
feel like I’d just failed an exam I didn’t know I was taking.
"I requested your assistance with sothing. There’s nothing weird about that."
She pushed the door open and walked inside without waiting for my response.
Her room was exactly what I expected. Everything had a place. The bed was made with hospital corners. Her desk held three perfectly aligned notebooks, a pen cup, and a closed laptop. Even her throw pillows were arranged at identical angles.
The only thing that felt remotely personal was a frad photo on her nightstand. Four little girls with wine-red hair. One of them had dirt on her face and was grinning like a maniac. That one was definitely Cassidy.
"Sit," Vivienne said, gesturing to the chair at her desk.
I sat. She closed the door behind her.
The sound of that latch clicking shut made my survival instincts scream.
"Now," she said, pulling out her phone and opening what looked like a docunt. "Let’s go over dinner protocol."
"There’s actual protocol."
"Did you think I was joking?"
Fair point.
She perched on the edge of her bed, close enough that I could sll whatever expensive perfu she wore. Sothing subtle. Floral but not overpowering.
Focus, Angelo. She’s your boss. This is a business eting. In her bedroom. With the door closed.
I was going to die here.
"Dinner will last approximately ninety minutes," she began, scrolling through her notes. "Mother sits at the head of the table. I sit to her right. You’ll be seated between Harlow and Sabrina."
"Why not near you?"
Her eyes flicked up. Sothing crossed her face too fast to read.
"Because Mother will want to observe you without my interference."
"That sounds ominous."
"It is." She returned to her phone. "You don’t speak unless Mother asks you a direct question. You don’t reach for anything. If you need sothing, wait for Mrs. Tanaka to notice."
"So I’m supposed to just sit there like furniture."
"Essentially."
I leaned back in the chair. "You want
to fetch too? Maybe learn how to shake?"
"If you misbehave, I’ll put you in the kennel."
Wait. Did Vivienne Valentine just make a joke?
"The east wing has a kennel?"
"We’ll build one specifically for you." She set her phone down on the bed beside her. Her expression remained perfectly composed, but there was sothing in the corner of her mouth. Not quite a smirk. Close enough to count. "Are you taking this seriously?"
"I’m sitting in your bedroom at six in the evening going over dinner etiquette like I’m about to et the Queen," I said. "I’m taking this extrely seriously."
She studied
for a mont. I couldn’t tell if she was satisfied with my answer or calculating how many derits to assign for my tone.
"You should be," she said finally. Her voice had lost the faint trace of humor. Back to business. "Mother doesn’t tolerate mistakes. She’ll be watching everything you do. How you hold your fork. How you respond to questions. Whether you make eye contact when she speaks."
"Sounds exhausting."
"It is." She stood and walked to her desk, which put her directly in front of .
Too close.
Way too close.
I could see the faint dusting of freckles across her nose that her makeup usually hid.
"You’ll be served five courses," she said, her voice dropping into lecture mode. "Mother will lead the conversation. If she asks about your family, keep your answers brief."
"Define brief."
"Three sentences maximum."
"What if she asks follow-ups?"
"Answer concisely. Don’t elaborate unless prompted."
She reached past
to grab a pen from the cup on her desk. Her arm brushed my shoulder.
"If Mother offers you wine, decline politely," she continued. "You’re eighteen. It’s illegal."
"Pretty sure your mom doesn’t care about liquor laws."
"She cares about appearances." Vivienne straightened, pen in hand. "If Cassidy says sothing inflammatory, which she will, don’t react. If Harlow tries to drag you into conversation, redirect to Mother."
"And if Sabrina does sothing weird?"
"Sabrina won’t. She’s silent during family dinners."
"That’s sohow more concerning."
Vivienne wrote sothing on her palm with the pen. A small reminder, probably. Then she looked at .
"You’re nervous," she observed.
"Your mom is terrifying and I’m about to spend ninety minutes being evaluated like a science experint. Yeah, I’m nervous."
"Don’t be." She capped the pen with a soft click. "You already passed the hard part."
"What hard part?"
"The salon. Mother’s first impressions are final. If she didn’t approve of you then, she never would have invited you to dinner."
"So this is just. What? A formality?"
"No." Vivienne set the pen down. "This is her confirming her assessnt."
She was standing close enough that I had to tilt my head back slightly to maintain eye contact. Which ant I was very aware of how the top two buttons of her blouse had co undone soti between the restaurant and now.
Do not look. Do not look. Do not—
I looked.
Just for a second.
She noticed.
Her cheeks flushed pink. Just a hint of color that crept up from her collar.
"Your collar," she said quietly.
"What about it?"
"It’s crooked again."
She reached for it before I could respond. Her fingers brushed my neck as she adjusted the fabric.
This was the second ti today she’d fixed my collar.
The first ti was professional. Businesslike. A quick adjustnt in the foyer before we left.
This ti felt different.
Maybe it was the closed door. Maybe it was the soft lighting. Maybe it was the fact that we were alone in her bedroom with twenty minutes until dinner and absolutely zero supervision.
"There," she murmured. "Better."
She didn’t step back.
I didn’t move.
We stood there in her immaculate bedroom, close enough that I could count the flecks of darker purple in her eyes.
"Vivienne."
"Yes?"
"What are we doing?"
Her hand was still on my collar. Her fingers curled slightly into the fabric.
"I’m ensuring you look presentable for dinner."
"That’s not what I ant."
"You’re my assistant," she said. "This is professional."
"Right. Professional."
"Completely professional."
"You’re still holding my collar."
She released it like it had burned her. Stepped back so fast she nearly knocked into her desk.
The pink in her cheeks spread down her neck.
"We should go," she said, her voice clipped. "Dinner is in eighteen minutes and Mother despises tardiness."
"Vivienne."
"Don’t." She grabbed her phone from the bed. "Don’t make this complicated."
"I’m not the one who brought
into her bedroom and stood close enough to—"
"I needed to brief you on protocol." Her eyes flashed. "That’s all this was."
"If you say so."
"I do say so." She walked to the door. Stopped with her hand on the handle. "And for the record, if I wanted to make things complicated, you would know."
She yanked the door open and walked out.
I sat there for a solid ten seconds, trying to restart my brain.
What the hell just happened?
Actually, I knew exactly what happened. The sa thing that kept happening whenever I was alone with any of the Valentine sisters. Invisible lines got blurry. Professional boundaries turned into suggestions.
I sighed and followed her into the dining room.
The dining room was at the far end of the west wing. I could hear voices as we approached. Harlow’s bright chatter. Cassidy’s sarcastic comntary. Sabrina’s silence that sohow felt louder than the other two combined.
Vivienne paused outside the doors. Smoothed her blouse. Checked her reflection in a nearby mirror.
"Rember," she said without looking at . "Brief answers. No elaboration. Don’t speak unless spoken to."
"Got it."
"And Isaiah?"
"Yeah?"
She finally turned. Her expression was unreadable.
"You look adequate."
Then she pushed open the doors and walked inside.
I stood in the hallway for a mont before finally walking into the dining room.
The table was set for six. Crystal glasses. Multiple forks per plate. Candles that probably cost more than my rent.
Camille Valentine sat at the head in a black dress that looked like it cost a small fortune. Her purple eyes tracked
the second I entered.
"Mr. Angelo. You’re prompt. I appreciate that."
"Thank you, Mrs. Valentine."
"Please, sit."
She gestured to a chair between Harlow and Sabrina. Exactly where Vivienne said I’d be.
I sat.
Harlow bead at . "Hi, Assistant-kun!"
"Stop calling him that," Cassidy muttered from across the table.
"But it’s cute!"
"It’s weird."
Sabrina said nothing. Just looked at
with those unreadable eyes and the ghost of a smile.
Vivienne took her seat to her mother’s right. Didn’t look at
once.
Mrs. Tanaka appeared with the first course. So kind of soup that slled incredible and probably had a French na I couldn’t pronounce.
Camille picked up her spoon. Everyone else did the sa.
"So, Mr. Angelo," she said, her voice cutting through the silence like a scalpel. "Tell
about your family."
And just like that, dinner began.
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