Chapter 68 Finding new feet
Vivienne's POV
"I think we will take the meeting and hear what they have to say. But we don't drop anything until we see a real offer. And by real, I mean at least fifteen million, plus reinstatement of your healthcare, plus a retraction of all accusations of misconduct."
Fifteen million. A week ago, that amount of money would have seemed impossible. Unreal. Now it was just a number being discussed casually over the phone.
"Okay," I said. "Take the meeting."
"I'll let you know what happens."
She hung up and I put my phone down on the table.
"They want to negotiate," I told Sarah.
"Already? That was fast."
"Monica says they're worried about the wrongful termination claim. It could be expensive and bad publicity."
Sarah smiled. "Good. Let them worry. Let them scramble. They deserve it after what they did to you."
That night, Sarah took me to the gallery where she worked. It was a small space in an artsy neighborhood, the kind of place that showcased local artists and hosted poetry readings and stayed open late on weekends for wine and cheese events.
Her boss, a woman named Diana who was probably in her fifties with gray hair cut in a sharp bob and wearing all black, looked at me with sharp, assessing eyes.
"Sarah says you need work," she said bluntly.
"Yes," I said. "I'm good with administrative tasks, organization, and customer service. I have experience with event planning and social media management."
"You're overqualified for what I'm offering," Diana said. "This is basically receptionist work. Ten dollars an hour, twenty hours a week. Are you going to get bored and quit in a month?"
"No," I said firmly. "I need this job. I'll work hard and I won't quit."
Diana studied me for another moment. Then she nodded.
"Fine. You start Monday. Nine to one, Monday through Friday. Don't be late and don't bring your personal drama through that door."
"Thank you," I said, relief washing over me. "I won't let you down."
It wasn't much. Ten dollars an hour, twenty hours a week. That was eight hundred dollars a month before taxes. Barely enough to survive on.
But it was something. It was mine. Money I was earning myself, not money Rapheal was giving me or money I was fighting for in court.
It felt like dignity.
When we left the gallery, I felt lighter than I had in days. Like maybe I was starting to build something new. Something that belonged to me.
My phone buzzed. A text from Monica.
"Met with Anderson. They're offering eight million, healthcare for one year, and a public statement that your termination was due to restructuring, not misconduct. Thoughts?"
Eight million. Four times their original offer. But still nowhere near what I was actually owed.
I texted back: "Tell them fifteen million, lifetime healthcare, and a full retraction stating I was an exemplary employee whose termination was unrelated to performance. Otherwise we see them in court."
Monica's response came immediately.
"Atta girl."
I smiled at my phone.
Raphael wanted a war? He was going to get one.
And I was just getting started..
The weekend passed in a strange blur of activity and waiting. Sarah tried to keep me distracted with movies and takeout and long conversations about everything except Rapheal.
But even when I wasn't thinking about him directly, he was there in the background of my mind. A constant presence I couldn't shake.
On Saturday afternoon, Monica called.
"They rejected our counteroffer," she said. "Anderson called it 'unreasonable and excessive.' He's threatening to drag this out for years if we don't accept something closer to their eight million."
"Let him drag it out," I said, surprised by how calm I sounded. "I'm not backing down."
"Good. Because I did some more digging into Moreau Industries' financials. Remember how I said Raphael stock options were worth about fifty million?"
"Yeah."
"I was being conservative. With the company's recent growth and the stock price increase over the past six months, those options are actually worth closer to seventy million now.
Plus he owns a vacation property in the Hamptons that was purchased during your marriage, valued at about four million. And there's an investment portfolio that's grown significantly, currently worth around twelve million."
I did the mental math. Seventy million in stock, four million in property, twelve million in investments. That was eighty-six million dollars in assets acquired during our marriage. Half of that would be forty-three million.
Raphael had offered me two million. Less than five percent of what I was legally entitled to.
"He really thought I would just take the two million and disappear," I said quietly.
"Most people would," Monica said. "Most people don't have the resources to fight someone like Raphael Moreau. They don't have the energy or the knowledge or the support system. He was counting on that. But you're not most people, Vivienne."
After we hung up, I sat on Sarah's couch thinking about numbers. Forty-three million dollars. It was an amount of money I couldn't even conceptualize properly. Enough to never work again. Enough to buy a house, travel the world, start a business, do whatever I wanted for the rest of my life.
But it wasn't really about the money. Not anymore.
It was about Rapheal learning that he couldn't use people and throw them away.
He has to know that actions had consequences. That I wasn't the naive girl from the café who would be grateful for whatever scraps he decided to give me.
On Sunday evening, Sarah convinced me to go to an art opening with her at a different gallery across town. I didn't want to go. Didn't feel like being around people or making small talk. But she insisted I needed to get out of the apartment.
"You can't just sit here refreshing your email waiting for legal updates," she said. "That's not healthy. Come with me, drink some cheap wine, look at some paintings, pretend to be a functioning human being for two hours."
So I went.