Chapter 30 Vivienne
Vivienne
The time away had been perfect in ways I hadn't anticipated.
After saying goodbye to my parents Saturday morning—Mom with tears in her eyes, Dad with a firm handshake for Julian and a whispered "Take care of our girl"—we'd flown back in comfortable silence, both of us processing the whirlwind of the past few days.
Julian had asked if I'd stay with him through the weekend, his voice casual but his eyes hopeful. I'd agreed without hesitation, realizing that his penthouse was starting to feel less like a museum and more like a place I wanted to be.
We'd stopped by my townhouse to grab more clothes and necessities, and now I stood in Julian's pristine laundry room—which was larger than my bedroom—loading my dirty clothes into a fancy washer that was connected to the internet.
I was reaching for the detergent when my phone rang. Melissa's name flashed on the screen.
"Hey, Mel," I answered, wedging the phone between my shoulder and ear as I measured soap.
"Viv! Oh my God, I saw the photo. The one with Rafael." Her voice was breathless with excitement rather than concern. "Don't worry about it though—I'm sending you something that should help. Check your email."
I frowned, setting down the detergent. "What do you mean?"
"Just check it. I promise you'll want to see this."
I pulled up my email on my phone, finding a message from Melissa with several video attachments.
The first showed Rafael on what appeared to be a yacht, completely naked and covered in glitter, attempting some kind of interpretive dance while belting out "Defying Gravity" from Wicked with spectacular incorrectness.
"Melissa," I said slowly, "What am I looking at?"
"Payback," she said with unmistakable satisfaction. "Remember how I told you Rafael brought me to that gallery? Well, I did some digging on him first. Hired a PI, found out about all the women he'd hurt with his little photo schemes. So I decided to do something about it."
I sank onto the bench beside the washer, my laundry forgotten. "You orchestrated this?"
"I got him to give me access to his accounts—men are so easy when they think you're just a pretty airhead—and I sent money to every woman he'd screwed over.
Substantial amounts. Then I donated a bunch more to charities in his name.
Organizations that help victims of exploitation, women's shelters, that kind of thing. "
"Melissa—"
"And then I arranged for him to have the absolute worst night of his life on that yacht. Nothing illegal," she added quickly. "Just extremely humiliating. Just something that gets you dropped by your talent agency and blacklisted from every respectable venue in the city."
I was having trouble reconciling this calculating strategist with the flighty friend who'd abandoned me at The Orpheum. "How did you even—I mean, you've always seemed so—"
"Ditzy?" Melissa's laugh was sharp. "That's the point, Viv. Men like Rafael see what they want to see. A blonde who laughs at their jokes and acts impressed by their mediocre art. They never think someone like me could outsmart them."
"There's more," she continued. "Scarlett Voss was a bitch at that gallery and I found out that she’s been terrorizing women for ages, so I helped orchestrate a little night out for her too.
Got her invited to the right parties, made sure she had access to the wrong substances.
I didn't think she'd get arrested—that was a bonus—but I figured some bad publicity would shut her up. "
I stared at my phone, completely blindsided. "Melissa, that's... that's kind of terrifying."
"That's strategic," she corrected. "These people hurt my friend. They needed consequences." Her voice softened. "I know I'm not always there when you need me, Viv. I know I messed up at The Orpheum. But this? This I could fix."
I felt tears prick at my eyes. "Thank you," I said quietly. "I don't know what else to say except thank you."
"You don't have to say anything. Just promise me you'll use those videos if anyone gives you trouble about that photo. Rafael's credibility is destroyed—no one's going to take his side over yours."
We talked for a few more minutes, Melissa filling me in on additional details of her elaborate revenge scheme, before hanging up with promises to get together the next time she was in town.
I was still processing the conversation—still trying to understand how my seemingly superficial friend had pulled off something so calculated—when my phone rang again.
This time, the caller ID showed Margaret Hartwell.
"Margaret?" I answered, surprise evident in my voice.
"Vivienne, darling! I hope I'm not calling at a bad time."
"Not at all. Is everything okay?"
"More than okay. I saw that ridiculous photo of you with Rafael Blackstone." Margaret's voice carried the sharp edge of someone who'd dealt with plenty of nonsense in her career. "And I saw the subsequent coverage of his spectacular fall from grace. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say."
I couldn't help but smile. "It's been an interesting week."
"I'm sure. Which brings me to why I'm calling. You mentioned at the gallery opening that you were a teacher. Are you still?"
My stomach tightened. "Actually, no. I was let go because of that photo."
"Perfect!" Margaret's enthusiasm caught me completely off guard. "Not that you lost your job, obviously—that's absolutely their loss. But it means you're available."
"Available for what?"
"To work with me, of course. I've been looking for someone to develop educational programming for the gallery—someone who understands both the historical context and contemporary relevance of our exhibitions.
Someone who can create curriculum materials, lead workshops, develop partnerships with schools.
After our conversation at the opening, I knew you'd be perfect for it. "
I gripped the edge of the bench, afraid this might be a dream. "You want to hire me?"
"If you're interested. The position would be full-time, with benefits, and a starting salary of—" She named a figure that was five times what I'd been making as a teacher.
I almost fell to the floor despite already being seated. "That's... Margaret, that's an incredible offer."
"It's market rate for someone with your expertise. And honestly, Vivienne, after watching you engage with guests at the opening, seeing how you analyzed the work with both academic rigor and genuine passion—I'd be a fool not to snap you up before someone else does."
"I don't know what to say."
"Say yes," Margaret said firmly. "Or at least say you'll meet me for lunch on Monday to discuss specifics. We can go over the position requirements, expectations, timeline for implementation. But I want you to know I'm serious about this, Vivienne. The Meridian needs someone like you."
"Yes," I breathed. "Yes to lunch, yes to the position, yes to everything."
Margaret's laugh was warm and genuine. "Wonderful. Let's say one o'clock at Lucia's—you know it?"
"I'll find it."
"Perfect. Oh, and Vivienne? Bring your ideas. Your wildest, most ambitious thoughts about what art education could be. I want to hear all of them."
After we hung up, I sat in Julian's pristine laundry room, surrounded by luxury appliances and marble countertops, my dirty clothes still sitting unstarted in the washing machine, and tried to process what had just happened.
In the span of two phone calls, I'd learned that my seemingly flighty best friend was actually a tactical genius who'd orchestrated elaborate revenge on my behalf, and that I'd been offered a dream job that paid more than I'd ever imagined making.
I'd lost my teaching position on Friday morning. By Sunday afternoon, I had something better.
The universe worked in mysterious ways indeed.
I was still sitting there, phone clutched in my hand, when Julian appeared in the doorway.
"Vivienne?" He took in my expression with immediate concern. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong," I said, and felt a laugh bubble up—slightly hysterical but genuine. "Everything's actually really, really right."
Julian moved closer, kneeling beside the bench to search my face. "Tell me."
So I did. I told him about Melissa's call, about the elaborate scheme she'd orchestrated to bring down Rafael and embarrass Scarlett.
I told him about Margaret's offer, about the salary that seemed impossible, about the chance to do exactly what I'd been trying to do in the classroom but on a much larger scale.
"Five times your teaching salary?" Julian's eyebrows rose. "That's... fantastic."
"I know." I looked down at my phone, at Margaret's number still on the screen. "I can't believe this is real."
Julian's hands framed my face, his thumbs brushing across my cheekbones. "This is real. And you deserve every bit of it. Margaret sees what I see—that you're brilliant at what you do, that you have something valuable to offer. She'd be a fool not to hire you."
"I’m meeting her Monday for lunch," I said. "To discuss specifics."
"Then you'll go to lunch on Monday," Julian said simply. "And you'll dazzle her with your ideas, and you'll build something extraordinary."
I pulled him closer, kissing him with all the gratitude and relief and excitement coursing through my veins. When we broke apart, both breathing hard, Julian's smile was soft and proud.
"Should we celebrate?" he asked.
"Yes," I said immediately. "But first, I really need to start this laundry."
Julian's laugh was warm and genuine. "Always practical."
"Someone has to be," I replied, finally hitting the start button on the washing machine. "Now, about that celebration..."
As we left the laundry room together, Julian's arm around my waist and my mind spinning with possibilities, I felt the last piece of Friday's devastation finally transform into something beautiful.
I'd lost a job that had stopped serving me. In its place, I'd found an opportunity that could let me reach more students, impact more lives, build something that extended beyond the walls of one classroom.
And I had people who'd fought for me—Melissa with her calculated revenge, Margaret with her unexpected offer, Julian with his unwavering support.
The weekend had been perfect. And somehow, Monday was already looking even better.