Four Of A Kind Chapter 209: [4.27] The Four Horsemen of My Public Humiliati

And there it was. The real reason she’d called here. Camille Valentine, eternal source of pressure and impossibly high standards.

"Fine. What do you need?"

Relief softened her features. "Just stay close. I may need a second opinion on so styling choices."

"I wear the sa three shirts in rotation."

"I’ve noticed." Her lips quirked. "It’s charming in its simplicity."

Was that... a complint? From Vivienne Valentine? Maybe I’d died over the weekend and this was so weird purgatory.

For the next hour, I followed her around like a shadow, watching as she transford from tightly-wound teenager to confident creative director. She spoke to the photographers with authority, adjusted lighting setups with the precision of soone who’d been doing this for decades, and handled a model ltdown with surprising gentleness.

"You’re good at this," I said during a rare quiet mont, leaning against a light stand while she reviewed shots on a digital cara screen.

"Of course I am." No false modesty, no pretense of humility. Pure, undiluted Vivienne. "I’ve been training for it my entire life."

The statent hung there between us, oddly hollow despite its confidence. I watched her scroll through images with chanical precision, her expression giving nothing away.

"Is it what you want, though?"

Her purple eyes snapped to mine. The cara nearly slipped from her hands. "What kind of question is that?"

"A simple one." I kept my tone casual, but sothing in the way she’d been moving through this space all morning had caught my attention. Too perfect, too practiced, like a script she’d morized rather than a role she’d chosen.

She looked away, watching as a model posed against a stark white backdrop across the studio. The photographer’s shutter clicked in rapid succession, capturing mont after mont. "Want doesn’t factor into it. This is my responsibility to the family na."

"That’s not what I asked."

"It’s the only answer that matters." Her voice was tight, each word carefully controlled like she was reading from a teleprompter. Then, softer, almost reluctant: "The photos from the gala are being published tomorrow."

I tensed, feeling my shoulders go rigid. "The ones of us?"

She nodded once, sharp and precise. "Mother’s team tried to suppress them, but Page Six got hold of them anyway. They’re running with ’Valentine Heiress’s Mystery Man’ as the headline."

"Fantastic." I could already imagine the whispers in the hallways, the stares, the questions I’d have to deflect. Just what I needed.

"I’m sorry." And she genuinely looked it. "This will complicate things for you at school."

I shrugged. "I’ll survive."

"Yes, you seem quite good at that." She studied with those unnervingly perceptive eyes. "Surviving."

Before I could respond, a stylist called her over for an ergency consultation on hemlines. I watched her go, all business again, the brief mont of connection severed.

My phone buzzed with a text from Sabrina: Library carrel C4. 8pm. Research assistance required.

Four sisters, four demands on my ti. Just another day in the Valentine job.

Hartwell’s library stayed open until 10pm for students cramming for exams or finishing papers. By 8pm, most had cleared out, leaving only the truly dedicated or truly desperate.

I found Sabrina in carrel C4, surrounded by stacks of books and a laptop open to what looked like a research database.

"You summoned ?" I slid into the chair across from her.

She didn’t look up. "I require your assistance with a project."

"What kind of project requires my specific help at 8pm?"

"The kind investigating polyamory in contemporary Arican youth culture."

"What?"

She finally looked up, her expression neutral as always. "Is there a problem?"

"Why are you researching that?"

"For my sociology paper." She pushed a book across the table. "I need you to read Chapters three through seven and summarize the key findings on relationship structures outside monogamy."

I stared at the book, then back at her. "Is this a joke?"

"Do I seem like soone who jokes?"

Fair point.

"This feels... targeted," I said carefully.

One eyebrow arched. "In what way?"

"You know exactly in what way."

She returned to her laptop, typing sothing. "Your narcissism is showing, Isaiah. Not everything is about you."

"Right. You’re researching polyamory three days after telling all four Valentine sisters are interested in . Pure coincidence."

The ghost of a smile touched her lips. "I’ve been working on this paper for six weeks. Check the date on my initial research proposal if you don’t believe ."

I didn’t know whether to believe her or not. Sabrina was the hardest Valentine to read.

"Fine." I took the book. "Chapters three through seven."

"Thank you."

We worked in silence for the next hour. I read about relationship anarchy, kitchen table polyamory, and hierarchical dating structures. Sabrina took notes on her laptop, occasionally asking my opinion on a passage or theory.

It was almost normal. Almost.

"What do you think about the consent culture described in Chapter five?" she asked without looking up.

"It seems logical. Clear communication, established boundaries, regular check-ins."

"Would you be capable of that level of communication in a romantic context?"

I narrowed my eyes. "This doesn’t feel like academic discussion anymore."

"Answer the question."

"I don’t know. I’ve never tried."

She nodded, making another note. "And if you were to try, what would your primary concerns be?"

"Sabrina."

"Yes?"

"What are you really asking?"

She finally looked up, her purple eyes piercing through . "I think you know."

"I have so guesses, and none of them are appropriate for a school library."

"Then perhaps we should discuss them elsewhere."

"Not happening."

She smiled, small but genuine. "Your resistance is admirable, if futile."

"Nothing about this conversation is admirable."

"You haven’t left."

She had there.

"I’m trying to be helpful," I said laly.

"You are. Very helpful." She closed her laptop. "That’s what makes you dangerous."

"? Dangerous?"

"Extrely." She began gathering her books. "You make people want things they shouldn’t want."

"That’s not my fault."

"I didn’t say it was." She stood to leave. "Just an observation."

I watched her pack up, feeling like I’d missed sothing important in our conversation. So subtext or hidden ssage.

"Sabrina," I called as she turned to go. "What’s really going on with you and your sisters?"

She paused, considering her answer. "Evolution," she said finally. "We’re evolving beyond our previous understanding of possibilities."

"That’s cryptic as hell."

"Patience, Isaiah." She smiled again, that rare, genuine smile that transford her face. "So experints take ti to yield results."

With that, she walked away, leaving with a half-read book on polyamory and the distinct feeling I was being set up for sothing I wasn’t prepared to handle.

By Wednesday, I’d convinced myself I was paranoid. The Valentine sisters were just being... themselves. Flirty, complicated, occasionally inappropriate, but fundantally normal.

Felix slid into the seat next to at lunch. "Dude, have you seen this?"

He shoved his phone in my face. Page Six, just as Vivienne had warned. A photo of us at the gala, her in that burgundy dress, in the borrowed suit. We looked good together, I had to admit. Like we belonged in the sa world.

The headline made my stomach turn: Valentine Heiress’s Mystery Man: New Love or Boy Toy?

"This is you, right?" Felix’s eyes were wide. "With Vivienne Valentine? At so fancy art thing?"

I shrugged. "I was helping her with a work thing."

"Bullshit. You’re wearing a tux!"

"It’s just a suit."

"A suit that probably costs more than so cars!"

He wasn’t wrong. The Tom Ford had been worth about twenty grand, according to Mr. Bellamy.

"It’s not a big deal," I lied.

"Not a big deal?" Felix laughed. "You’re dating Vivienne Valentine!"

"I’m not dating anyone."

"Then what’s this?" He swiped to another photo, this one showing Vivienne’s hand on my arm, her face turned up toward mine, both of us clearly in a mont.

Shit.

"It’s nothing. A work event."

"Right. And I’m the Queen of England."

I was saved from further interrogation by the arrival of the Valentine sisters themselves. They moved through the cafeteria like visiting royalty, drawing every eye in the room.

But instead of sitting at their usual table, they headed straight for .

"Isaiah." Vivienne’s voice carried just enough to make nearby conversations pause. "We need to discuss this weekend’s schedule."

Felix’s mouth fell open.

"Sure." I kept my voice casual. "What about it?"

"We’re having a family eting," Cassidy said, dropping into the seat across from . "All of us. Friday night at the manor."

"And we need you there," Harlow added, sliding in beside her sister.

"For... what exactly?"

"Business," Sabrina said, taking the final seat. "Family business."

Four identical faces with four different expressions all watched expectantly.

"Family business doesn’t involve ," I pointed out.

"It does now." Vivienne’s tone left no room for argunt. "Friday. Seven o’clock. We’ll have soone bring your sister."

They stood in unison, like they’d choreographed it.

"Oh, and Isaiah?" Cassidy turned back with a dangerous smile. "Don’t make plans for afterward. This might take all night."

They walked away, leaving the cafeteria buzzing with speculation and Felix staring at like I’d grown a second head.

"What the actual fuck was that?" he whispered.

I watched the Valentine sisters exit the cafeteria, already dreading whatever "family eting" awaited Friday night.

"That," I said, "was probably the end of my career."