Chapter 66 Start with the good news.
Vivienne's Pov
Sarah came home around midnight and found me still sitting on the floor by the door, my face swollen from crying, the recorded video of Marcus still paused on my phone screen.
She didn't say anything at first. Just sat down next to me, her back against the door too, our shoulders touching.
"He came here," I said, my voice hoarse from crying.
"I figured," she said quietly. "You've got that look."
"What look?"
"The look of someone who just saw their ex beg and threaten in the same breath."
I let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob. "How did you know?"
"Because men like that always do the same thing when they realize they're losing control. First they try to be nice. Then they try to negotiate. Then they threaten. It's like a playbook they all read from."
I showed her the recording and the texts. She watched and read in silence, her jaw getting tighter with each passing second.
"He threatened to call the police on you for going to your own home?" she said when she finished.
"He said I broke in. That the apartment is his property."
"It's marital property and you're still married. He's so full of shit." She stood up and held out her hand. "Come on. Get off the floor. You're not going to let him reduce you to sitting on the ground crying."
I took her hand and let her pull me up.
"Did you send this to Monica?" she asked.
"Yeah."
"Good. Now go wash your face and get ready for bed. Tomorrow's going to be another long day and you need to rest."
She was right. I was exhausted. The kind of exhaustion that goes deeper than just physical tiredness. The kind that settles into your bones and makes everything feel heavy.
I washed my face in the small bathroom, looking at myself in the mirror. My eyes were red and puffy. My skin was blotchy. I looked like I had been through a war.
Maybe I had.
When I came out, Sarah had made up the pull-out couch with fresh sheets and a pillow.
"I know it's not the king-sized bed you're used to," she said. "But it's comfortable enough."
"It's perfect," I said. And I meant it.
Because this lumpy pull-out couch in Sarah's tiny apartment felt safer than that enormous bed in Marcus's penthouse ever did.
I lay down and Sarah turned off the lights, padding back to her own room.
"Sarah?" I called out in the darkness.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For taking me in. For not turning me away after everything."
There was a pause. Then her voice came back, softer than before.
"It's fine Vivienne, you have to sleep now.”
I heard her door close gently.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, I fell asleep feeling like maybe, just maybe, I was going to be okay.
The next morning, I woke up to sunlight streaming through Sarah's living room window and the smell of coffee brewing. For a split second, I forgot where I was. Forgot everything that had happened. Then reality came crashing back like a wave.
Divorce. Fired. Fighting for what I was owed.
Sarah was already dressed for the day, her hair pulled back in a messy bun, wearing paint-stained jeans and an oversized sweater.
"Coffee's ready," she said when she saw me sitting up. "And Monica called. She wants you to come to her office this morning. Ten o'clock."
I checked my phone. It was eight-thirty. Plenty of time.
There were seventeen missed calls from unknown numbers. Probably Raphael trying different phones to reach me. Five voicemails I didn't listen to. And dozens of texts from that same Apple ID account he could still access.
I scrolled through them quickly. They ranged from apologetic to angry to threatening and back to apologetic again. A roller coaster of manipulation.
The last one, sent at three in the morning, just said: "I'm sorry."
I deleted all of them without responding.
Then I went into my phone settings and removed myself from his Apple ID family account. Changed all my passwords. Cut off that last digital thread connecting us.
Small victories.
I got dressed in jeans and a simple black sweater. Put on minimal makeup to hide the evidence of last night's crying. Pulled my hair back in a ponytail. I looked at myself in the mirror and barely recognized the woman staring back.
But that was okay. Maybe I needed to become someone new anyway. Someone stronger. Someone who didn't let men walk all over her.
Sarah and I took the subway to Monica's office. It was in a modest building in a business district, nothing like the gleaming skyscraper where Moreau Industries was housed. But it felt real. Honest. Not designed to intimidate.
Monica was waiting in her small office, files spread across her desk, her laptop open, looking like she had been working for hours already.
"Good morning," she said, gesturing for us to sit. "I have news. Some good, some complicated."
"Start with the good," I said.