Chapter 70 The unexpected text.
Vivienne's POV
Real, solid hope that maybe I was going to win this fight. That maybe standing up to Rapheal was the right decision. That maybe destroying my life was the worst mistake he ever made.
"You're smiling," Sarah observed as we climbed the stairs to her apartment.
"Am I?"
"Yeah. First real smile I've seen from you since this whole thing started."
I thought about that. She was right. For the first time since Raphel said those words—I want a divorce—I actually felt like smiling.
"I think I'm going to be okay," I said.
"Of course you are," Sarah said, unlocking her door. "You're Vivienne fucking Loreau. Well, not for much longer. But you know what I mean."
We laughed as we went inside.
Monday morning came too quickly. My first day working at the gallery. I dressed in black pants and a simple blouse, pulled my hair back, and kept my makeup minimal. Professional but not trying too hard.
Diana was already there when I arrived at eight-forty-five, fifteen minutes early.
"Punctual," she said approvingly. "Good. Let me show you around."
The job was exactly as advertised. Answer phones. Schedule appointments for people who wanted private viewings. Update the website with new pieces. Manage the social media accounts. Send invoices. Keep track of which pieces were sold and which were still available.
Simple, straightforward work that required attention to detail but wasn't intellectually challenging.
I loved it.
Because for four hours a day, I could focus on something other than my divorce.
Could be useful. Could contribute. Could build something, even if it was just updating a website or posting an Instagram photo of a new sculpture.
Diana watched me work for the first few hours, occasionally offering corrections or suggestions. By lunchtime, she seemed satisfied.
"You'll do," she said, which I was learning was high praise from her.
"Thank you for giving me a chance," I said.
She waved a hand dismissively. "Sarah vouched for you. That's good enough for me. Plus, you actually know how to use Excel properly, which is more than I can say for the last three people I hired."
When I left the gallery at one o'clock, I felt accomplished. Like I had actually done something productive with my morning instead of just sitting around waiting for legal updates.
My phone had several missed calls from Monica. I called her back immediately.
"Where have you been?" she asked when she picked up.
"Working. I started a new job. What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong. Everything's right. Anderson called this morning with a new offer. Twelve million, healthcare for five years, and a statement that your termination was due to mutual separation, not misconduct."
Twelve million. They were moving in the right direction. But still nowhere near the forty-three million I was actually entitled to.
"What did you tell him?" I asked.
"I told him we'd consider it and get back to him by the end of business today. But Vivienne, I also told him we're prepared to go to trial if necessary. I've been building the case all weekend.
With the evidence from Rebecca and Emily's group, with the fraudulent prenup documents, with the wrongful termination claim, we have a strong case. Very strong."
"So what do you recommend?"
Monica was quiet for a moment.
"Honestly? I think we should push for more. We're in a good position. They're scared. They know we have evidence and witnesses. They know the prenup fraud makes Marcus look terrible.
They know wrongful termination could cost them millions in damages and bad publicity. We have leverage."
"Then let's use it," I said.
"I'll call Anderson back and tell him twenty million, lifetime healthcare, and a full retraction. See what he says."
"Okay."
After we hung up, I stood on the sidewalk outside the gallery, watching people walk past. Business people in suits. Students with backpacks. Tourists with cameras. All of them living their lives, completely unaware that my entire world was being negotiated in phone calls between lawyers.
Twenty million dollars. Half of what I was actually owed, but ten times more than Raphael's original offer.
Would he accept it? Or would he refuse and drag this out for years out of spite?
I didn't know.
But I was willing to find out.
My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.
"This is Raphael. We need to talk."
I stared at the message, my stomach dropping.