I walked through the dark hallway toward Vivienne’s study, still replaying the strange conversation with Sabrina in my mind. The Valentine manor at night was a different creature entirely – the pristine white halls bathed in shadow, the distant tick of clocks marking seconds that felt like hours, the weight of old money watching from countless portrait fras.
What was I even doing here? My life used to be simple: wake up, commute, work, sleep, repeat. Now I had four identical girls playing mind gas that would make chess grandmasters dizzy. And one of them had kissed .
I’d been kissed before, obviously. I’m eighteen, not dead. But there’s sothing uniquely troubleso about being kissed by a girl who could be one of four people.
My knuckles rapped against Vivienne’s door before I could spiral further into that particular ntal labyrinth.
"Enter," ca her voice from within, sounding... different. Less commanding than usual.
I pushed the door open and stopped dead in my tracks.
Vivienne Valentine sat at her desk, but this wasn’t the Vivienne I knew. The perfectly buttoned blazer was gone. The immaculate ponytail had been loosened. And most shocking of all, she wore what appeared to be silk pajamas – burgundy, like the ones from the mansion steps – with the top two buttons undone.
I imdiately cataloged this as highly suspicious behavior. Vivienne Valentine does not do "casual." She doesn’t even do "business casual." She exists in a perpetual state of formal perfection, as if a photographer from Vogue might leap out at any mont.
"You requested my presence?" I managed, keeping my voice carefully neutral.
"Yes," she said, then cleared her throat. "Yes. Please close the door behind you."
I did as instructed, noticing a folder on the corner of her desk. Probably the work Harlow had ntioned earlier.
"I need your input on the Lumière launch party next week," she said, gesturing to the chair across from her desk. "Mother has... delegated certain decisions to ."
I sat down, trying not to stare at the exposed skin of her collarbone or the way her wine-red hair fell softly around her shoulders instead of being pulled back in its usual severe style.
"I assud your mother would handle major brand partnerships personally."
"She did. She does." Vivienne’s fingers tapped a nervous rhythm on her desk – another unprecedented behavior. "We had a eting before she left. She inford that since I negotiated the initial terms, I would be responsible for the launch execution."
"That seems like a vote of confidence."
"Or a trap," Vivienne muttered, then looked up sharply as if surprised she’d spoken aloud. "In any case, I need to review the guest list and seating arrangents."
She pushed a tablet toward , our fingers brushing montarily. I noticed her hand was cool to the touch.
"Are you feeling alright?" I asked before I could stop myself.
Vivienne’s purple eyes widened slightly. "Why would you ask that?"
"You seem..." I gestured vaguely at her entire situation, "not yourself."
"I’m perfectly fine," she said automatically, then sighed. "It’s been a long day. Mother can be... demanding."
That might have been the most personal thing Vivienne had ever shared with . I suddenly felt like I was handling a rare, potentially explosive artifact.
"Do you want to talk about it?" I offered, already knowing the answer.
"Absolutely not." She straightened her posture, so of her usual authority returning. "We have work to do."
I nodded and looked down at the tablet, scrolling through the guest list. Fashion editors, influencers, retail buyers, and various Valentine Holdings executives filled the page.
"This seems comprehensive," I said.
"Too comprehensive," Vivienne murmured. "Mother insists on inviting the Chanel team even though they’re direct competitors. She says it creates ’valuable tension.’"
I raised an eyebrow. "Your mother enjoys playing with fire."
"She enjoys winning," Vivienne corrected, leaning forward slightly. The movent caused her pajama top to gape just a bit more, revealing the soft curve where neck ets shoulder. I quickly returned my attention to the tablet.
"The seating chart is where I need your input," she continued, seemingly unaware of my montary distraction. "Mother seated the Vogue editor next to the Net-a-Porter buyer, but they had a falling out at Paris Fashion Week last year."
"How would you know that?"
"I make it my business to know everything about everyone who matters." She said it without a hint of irony, her tone as settled and factual as if she were reading a line from a spreadsheet. "The problem is, moving the Vogue editor creates a cascade. I’d have to reseat half the table to compensate."
I studied the chart, scrolling through the nas, tracing the invisible web of grudges and alliances she’d already mapped in her head. It took about thirty seconds.
"Put the Vogue editor here," I said, tapping a position near the centre. "Next to the Lumière CEO. They’re in talks about a collaboration, right? Give them sothing to focus on besides each other’s enemies."
Vivienne tilted her head, considering. "That could work. But then the WWD reporter would be too close to our head of product developnt, who has a tendency to reveal too much after a glass of champagne."
"Move the reporter here, next to your PR director. She can keep an eye on him."
A small smile played at the corner of Vivienne’s lips. "Clever."
We spent the next twenty minutes rearranging the seating chart, solving what amounted to a complex puzzle of egos, industry rivalries, and strategic business opportunities. Vivienne gradually relaxed as we worked, her shoulders losing their rigid tension.
"That should address the major conflicts," she said finally, saving the changes. "Thank you for your assistance."
"It’s literally my job," I reminded her.
"Yes, but you’re good at it." She looked up at , her expression unusually soft. "You understand people."
Coming from Vivienne Valentine, this was practically a sonnet dedicated to my brilliance.
"Speaking of understanding people," I said, spotting an opportunity, "I wanted to talk to you about the Halloween festival."
Vivienne’s expression imdiately sharpened. "What about it?"
"I think you should let Cassidy and Harlow go forward with their maid café idea."
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