Vivienne Adrienne Valentine sat at her glass desk in her suite, the room so immaculate it could have been photographed for an interior design magazine. White walls. Gold accents. Fresh flowers in a crystal vase, replaced every three days by staff who knew better than to let a single petal wilt. The evening light filtered through sheer curtains, casting long shadows across the pristine hardwood floors.
Her tablet displayed Isaiah Angelo's profile photo alongside her own meticulous notes from the interview. She had typed them in real-time, her fingers moving across the keyboard while maintaining eye contact with the candidate. A skill she had perfected during countless board meetings where appearing engaged while documenting everything had become second nature.
Subject: Isaiah Angelo, 18
Status: Scholarship student, Hartwell Academy
Employment: Bartender, Velvet Lounge (upscale establishment, Midtown)
Notable: Did not grovel. Did not flatter. Treated interview as bilateral negotiation.
Vivienne scrolled down to her assessment section.
Strengths: Composed under pressure. Quick-witted. Demonstrated understanding of contract law. Maintained boundaries without aggression.
Weaknesses: Inflexible regarding familial obligations. Potential liability if personal situation interferes with duties.
Recommendation: Viable candidate with reservations.
She stared at that last line for a long moment.
Reservations.
What an inadequate word for the knot forming in her stomach.
The interview had not gone according to plan. Vivienne had prepared for the usual candidates, the ones who walked into the manor with dollar signs in their eyes and submission in their posture. The ones who said "yes, of course" and "whatever you need" and "I'm so grateful for this opportunity."
Isaiah Angelo had said none of those things.
He had sat in that chair like he belonged there. As if interviewing with four heiresses to a billion-dollar empire was simply another item on his to-do list, somewhere between calculus homework and a six-hour bar shift.
"Some things aren't for sale."
Vivienne's fingers tightened around her stylus.
Insolent, she thought. Unprofessional. Who does he think he is, dictating terms to us? We're offering him more money than he's ever seen in his life. He should be grateful. He should be compliant.
But even as the thoughts formed, another voice whispered beneath them.
His points on the contract were valid.
The transportation issue. The written agreements. The clarification of working hours. These were not the concerns of someone trying to take advantage. They were the concerns of someone who had been taken advantage of before. Someone who had learned, probably the hard way, that verbal promises meant nothing.
Vivienne understood that lesson intimately.
She pulled up the other candidate profiles. Marcus Webb. Jennifer Park. David Charin. Rosé Santos. Four names representing four hours of wasted interview time.
Marcus had spent the entire interview trying to impress them with business jargon he clearly did not understand. Jennifer had asked three questions about their Instagram followers and zero questions about the actual job responsibilities. David had been so nervous he had knocked over a glass of water and apologized seventeen times. Rosé had been competent enough, but her diplomatic background made her a security risk. Too many connections to people who would love a window into Valentine family affairs.
One was a plant. One was a sycophant. One was a liability. One was a risk.
And one was...
Vivienne looked at Isaiah's photo again.
Dark hair with faded bleach. Tired eyes that missed nothing. A slight smirk that suggested he found something amusing about the entire situation.
Troublesome.
The word surfaced unbidden. Had she heard someone use it recently?
She shook her head and reached for her tablet, swiping to the video call application. The time read 6:47 PM. Her mother would still be at the office. She always was.
I should report the interview results. Present the candidate options. Seek guidance on the modified terms.
The screen connected after two rings. The image that appeared showed Camille Valentine in her corner office at Valentine Holdings West, the Los Angeles skyline a glittering backdrop behind her. Her mother wore a white blazer. Her platinum blonde hair was pulled back in a sleek ponytail.
Her expression was the same one she wore in every photograph, every interview, every public appearance.
Cold. Composed. Utterly unimpressed.
"Vivienne, this had better be important. I have a conference call with Tokyo in eight minutes."
Vivienne straightened her spine. Adjusted her posture. Became the perfect heiress.
"Good evening, Mother. I'm calling to report on the assistant candidate interviews."
Camille did not look up from whatever document she was signing. "Go on."
"We reviewed five candidates. Four have been eliminated. Marcus Webb demonstrated insufficient competence. Jennifer Park presents unacceptable social media exposure risks. David Charin lacks the temperament for our household environment. Rosé Santos' diplomatic connections create potential security concerns."
"And the fifth?"
"Isaiah Angelo. Eighteen years old. Senior at Hartwell Academy, full academic scholarship. Currently employed as a bartender at an upscale establishment in Midtown. He is the most viable option."
Camille's pen paused for a fraction of a second. "I sense a 'but' coming."
"He has requested modifications to the standard terms."
"What kind of modifications?"
Vivienne pulled up her notes, though she had already memorized every word. "He is unwilling to commit to full weekend residency due to a familial obligation. A younger sister, age fourteen, who apparently depends on him. He has proposed one overnight stay per week as an alternative."
The silence that followed lasted exactly four seconds. Vivienne counted.
"Is this acceptable?"
Camille finally looked up. Her brown eyes, warm in color but cold in expression, fixed on the camera.
"Are you asking for my permission, Vivienne?"
"I... no. I was seeking your input on the compensation structure. Given the substantial monthly salary, I thought it prudent to—"
"You thought."
Camille set down her pen. Folded her hands on her desk.
"You are seventeen years old, not seven. I delegated this task to you specifically because I am tired of paying severance to incompetent assistants who cannot handle a simple household management role. I gave you authority. I gave you resources. I gave you my time, which is considerably more valuable than either."
Camille sighed. "If you cannot handle a basic staffing negotiation without running to me for guidance, then perhaps I have overestimated your capabilities."