Four Of A Kind-Chapter 139: [3.41] The Good Side

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again like some kind of broken animatronic stuck between factory settings.

The words Vivienne had just said were still processing through my brain at dial-up internet speeds. Something about not wanting to be seen with the help but not minding being seen with me specifically.

Which was possibly the most complicated non-confession confession I’d ever heard.

And I’d served drinks to politicians for two years. I knew verbal gymnastics when I heard them.

"Vivienne—"

My phone exploded with noise.

Not a text buzz. A full ringtone. Which meant someone was actually calling me instead of sending a message like a normal human in the twenty-first century.

I pulled it out. Cassidy’s name flashed across the screen with a contact photo she’d somehow changed to a picture of herself flipping off the camera.

I looked at Vivienne. Her expression had shifted from vulnerable to annoyed in approximately 0.3 seconds. Record time.

"Answer it," she said. Flat. Cold. The mask was back on.

I swiped.

"Hello?"

"THEY DIDN’T GET MY GOOD SIDE."

Cassidy’s voice blasted through the speaker at maximum volume. I pulled the phone away from my ear before permanent hearing damage could occur.

"What?"

"THE PHOTO. The one with you and me at Bubble Dreams. I look like I have a double chin and you look like you’re seven feet tall. I’m not that short!"

I glanced at Vivienne, who had crossed her arms and was now watching me with the expression of someone observing a particularly interesting car crash.

"Cassidy. I’m kind of in the middle of—"

"Did you SEE it? Hold on. I’m sending it."

My phone buzzed. The photo loaded. Me and Cassidy standing maybe six inches apart, both looking at each other instead of the camera. The angle was weird. Made me look taller than I actually was and caught her mid-word so her face looked softer than usual.

"See? THAT is not my angle. My left side is my good side. Everyone knows that. And they made you look like a basketball player."

"I am six-one."

"You’re not THAT tall." She made an angry noise. "And you know what else? The article called you ’mystery man.’ MYSTERY. Like you’re some kind of secret. Which is stupid because you’re literally nobody."

"Thanks. Really feeling the love here."

"I didn’t mean it like that." Her voice shifted. Less angry. More... something. "I just mean you’re normal. You’re not famous or rich or whatever. You’re just Isaiah."

My brain tried to parse whether that was actually a compliment.

Failed.

"Okay?"

"So here’s what we’re doing." Cassidy was back to commanding now. Her natural state. "You’re coming with me places. Like, officially. We’ll take pictures together. Good ones. Where I look hot and you look like you’re lucky to be standing next to me."

I blinked. "What."

"You heard me. If tabloids are gonna use photos anyway, they might as well use GOOD photos. Not this garbage where I look constipated."

"You don’t look—"

"And another thing. Way too many sharks are circling my bait right now."

I stopped. Rewound that sentence. Played it again.

"What does that even mean?"

"Nothing! Don’t look into it, weirdo."

"Cassidy—"

"Point is, if we control the narrative, people stop making up stories. We give them exactly what they want. Pictures of the Valentine Problem Child and her hot assistant. Everyone wins."

Vivienne made a sound like a teakettle about to explode.

I held up one finger. The universal sign for "hold that thought before you murder me."

"So your solution," I said slowly into the phone, "is to create MORE photos of us together. On purpose."

"With better lighting and my good angle, yes."

"That is possibly the worst idea I’ve heard all week."

"Excuse me?"

Vivienne stepped forward. Grabbed my phone out of my hand with the speed of someone who’d been practicing that exact move in her head for the past thirty seconds.

"Cassidy. No."

"Vivi? What are you doing with my tutor’s phone?"

"YOUR tutor?" Vivienne’s voice had gone up approximately half an octave. "He works for the household. Not specifically for you."

"Yeah but I’m the one betting him in rabbit ears."

Silence.

I watched Vivienne’s face cycle through several emotions too fast to catalog. Confusion led the pack. Horror came in second. The bronze medal went to something that looked suspiciously like jealousy but couldn’t possibly be because that would require Vivienne Valentine to care about what I did with her sister.

Which she definitely didn’t.

Absolutely not.

The pink creeping up her neck was completely unrelated.

"The WHAT bet?" Vivienne said.

"Oh. Right. You don’t know about that." Cassidy sounded genuinely surprised. "Isaiah didn’t tell you? If I get a B on my report card, he has to be my pet for a day. If I fail, I’m his. We’re talking collars. Leashes. The full experience."

I closed my eyes. Counted to five in my head. Gave up at three.

"That is not what I said."

"That’s EXACTLY what you said, Scholarship Boy."

Vivienne turned to look at me. Her expression could have flash-frozen lava.

"You made a BET with my sister. Involving pet play."

"It’s not— it was motivational structure. Psychology. Game theory."

"Game theory." She repeated the words like they were a foreign language. Or a particularly offensive slur.

"It’s working! She scored ninety on the practice quiz."

"By BETTING you in animal accessories."

"The goal is academic improvement. The method is... flexible."

Vivienne brought the phone back to her ear. "Cassidy. Where are you right now."

"Library. Why?"

"Stay there. I’m sending Isaiah down." She paused. "And you’re not doing photoshoots with him. That’s final."

"You can’t tell me what to do with MY tutor."

"I absolutely can. I’m your supervisor."

"You’re my SISTER."

"Then act like it and stop creating PR disasters."

"I’m not creating anything. I’m fixing what those garbage photographers started."

Their voices were rising. Volume climbing steadily toward the red zone where rational discussion goes to die and sisterly warfare begins.

I reached out. Gently took my phone back from Vivienne’s hand.

"Hey. Cassidy."

"WHAT."

"I’m coming down. We’ll figure this out. Just... don’t leave the library."

"Why would I leave?"

"Great. Stay there. I’ll be there in five."

I hung up before she could argue.

Turned to face Vivienne, who looked like she wanted to either scream or cry or possibly set me on fire.

"I have questions," she said.

"I know."

"So many questions."

"I know that too."

"Starting with why you thought betting my sister in costumes was appropriate tutoring methodology."

"Because traditional methods failed seven times and I had two months to produce results or lose my job." I held her stare. "I did what worked. It’s working. She’s improving."

"By gambling herself away."

"By giving herself a reason to try that isn’t another adult telling her she’s broken."

Vivienne went very still.

I’d hit something. I could see it in the way her shoulders locked and her breathing stopped for half a second.

"She told you that? That we think she’s broken?"

"She told me she’s been told that. By someone. Multiple someones. For long enough that she believes it."

"We never—" Vivienne stopped. Started again. "Mother has high standards. For all of us. That doesn’t mean—"

"Your mother refused to get Cassidy tested for learning disabilities because ’Valentines don’t have disabilities.’" I kept my voice level. Clinical. "That’s in her file. Dr. Reyes included it."

Vivienne’s face went through several colors. None of them good.

"I didn’t know that."

"Now you do."

She sat down. Not at her desk. On the edge of it. Which was so unlike Vivienne that I actually checked if she was about to faint.

"I’m her sister. I should have..." She trailed off. Stared at her hands. "I’ve been so focused on the company. On appearances. On making sure we all look perfect for Mother that I didn’t notice Cassidy was actually struggling. I thought she was just being difficult."

"She is difficult. That’s separate from struggling."

"You’re defending her."

"I’m stating facts."

Vivienne looked up at me. Really looked. The kind of look that felt like she was trying to see past my skull into whatever passed for my thought process.

"You care about her," Vivienne said. "Cassidy. You actually care."