It wasn’t a question.
I stared at her. "How did you—"
"You have that look. The one people get when ghosts show up uninvited." She tilted her head slightly. "Also you turned off your phone completely. You never turn off your phone. Ergencies could happen. Iris could need you. The fact that you powered it down entirely ans soone you don’t want to talk to has access to your number."
I said nothing.
Couldn’t. Because she was right and hearing it out loud made it worse.
Vivienne walked around to the passenger side. Opened the door. Slid into the seat beside without asking permission.
She sat there. Silent. Not fidgeting. Not checking her tablet. Not doing anything except existing in the space next to .
The quiet stretched. Comfortable, sohow.
"My mother called once from Tokyo," Vivienne said eventually. Her voice was softer than usual. Almost gentle. "It was my birthday. She was in the middle of a eting with the Shiseido board. She stayed on the phone for exactly forty-seven seconds. Said happy birthday. Asked if I liked the dress she had soone send. Hung up before I could answer."
I looked at her.
She was staring straight ahead. Her hands folded in her lap. Perfect posture even in crisis.
"I wanted to throw my phone off the balcony," she continued. "Wanted to scream at her that I didn’t care about the dress. That I wanted her there. Ho. For once." She paused. "But I didn’t. I thanked the assistant who delivered the dress. Wore it to the family dinner that night. Smiled for the photographers."
"Vivienne."
"You don’t have to respond to her." Her eyes cut to mine. Sharp. Clear. "Whatever she wants, whatever she’s asking for, you don’t owe her anything. Not your ti. Not your forgiveness. Not even an explanation for why you’re choosing silence."
My throat felt tight.
"Iris keeps asking about her."
"What do you tell her?"
"That mom’s busy. That she’ll call when she can. That we’re fine without her." I exhaled. "The usual lies."
"They’re not lies if they keep Iris safe." Vivienne reached over. Her fingers brushed mine where they still gripped the steering wheel. "You’re protecting her. That’s different."
The touch lasted maybe two seconds.
Felt like longer.
"We’re going to be late," I said.
"I know."
"The tailor is going to be annoyed."
"He’ll survive. I tip well." She pulled her hand back. Smoothed her skirt. "But we should go. Before I start saying more things that cross professional boundaries."
I almost asked what kind of things.
Didn’t. Because I was a coward and also because I’d hit my emotional capacity for the day sowhere around ssage three from my mother.
We got out of the car. Walked side by side toward the tailor’s shop. An old brownstone converted into a studio. Gold lettering on the window that said Bellamy & Sons, Est. 1952.
Vivienne reached for the door handle. Stopped. Looked back at .
"For what it’s worth, Angelo, you’re doing a good job. With Iris. With Cassidy. With all of it." Her cheeks went slightly pink. "That’s not professional feedback. That’s just... true."
She pulled the door open before I could respond.
A bell chid overhead as we entered.
The shop slled like fabric and old wood. Bolts of material lined the walls. A elderly man with white hair and asuring tape around his neck looked up from a cutting table.
"Miss Valentine." He bowed slightly. Actually bowed. "Right on ti as always."
Vivienne glanced at . Raised one perfect eyebrow.
The ssage was clear. I lied to protect you. You’re welco.
I followed her inside.
The fitting took an hour.
Mr. Bellamy asured every part of twice. Shoulders. Chest. Waist. Inseam. Arm length. Neck circumference. He wrote everything down in a leather notebook with handwriting that looked like calligraphy.
Vivienne sat in a velvet chair by the window. Watching. Occasionally offering input.
"The shoulders need to be sharper. He slouches when he’s tired. The structure should compensate."
"Noted, Miss Valentine."
"And the trousers. Not too slim. He walks a lot. Needs range of motion."
"Of course."
"The fabric. Sothing that doesn’t wrinkle easily. He commutes. Trains, subways, that sort of thing."
Mr. Bellamy glanced at . His expression was kind. Understanding.
"I’ll select sothing durable, Miss Valentine. The young man will look presentable regardless of his journey."
"He’d better. He’s representing my family Saturday night."
I stood on a small platform in the center of the room. Arms out. Feeling like a mannequin while Mr. Bellamy pinned fabric to my fra.
My phone was still off.
Good. Let it stay off. Let my mother’s ssages pile up into a monunt of everything she wanted to say but couldn’t say when it mattered.
When we actually needed her.
When Iris was eight and had nightmares and called for mom but mom was gone again and I had to be the one who sat on the edge of her bed until she fell back asleep.
When I was fourteen and got my first real job washing dishes because rent was due and mom’s latest boyfriend had borrowed three hundred dollars and never paid it back.
When Iris turned thirteen and asked why we never celebrated Mother’s Day and I had to explain that so holidays didn’t apply to everyone.
"You’re tense," Mr. Bellamy observed. He was adjusting the jacket’s back seam. "Relax your shoulders, son. Otherwise the fit will be all wrong."
I forced my muscles to unclench.
Vivienne’s eyes tracked from her chair. She’d pulled out her tablet at so point. Probably reviewing whatever catastrophe was brewing in her inbox.
But every few seconds, her gaze lifted. Checked on . Made sure I was still standing.
"How’s the length?" Mr. Bellamy asked. He’d pinned the trousers at what he considered the appropriate break. "Miss Valentine, your opinion?"
Vivienne stood. Walked over. Circled slowly.
Her hand ca up. Adjusted the jacket’s lapel. Smoothed a wrinkle that probably didn’t exist.
"Perfect," she said quietly. "Make it exactly like this."
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