There were photographs Elas leaving the estate in his work truck. Elas in a hardware store. Elias outside the old brick building on Callaway Street carrying a bag of groceries. The pundits laughed. The columnists sharpened their knives.
One anchor called the marriage the most expensive con in corporate history. Another asked with a smirk whether the board should be worried that the company's future now depended on a man who changed light bulbs for a living. Elias read none of it. He heard about it from the cashier at the hardware store, a young man who recognized him and stared too long. And from Mrs. Dalton, who called the estate to say she had told a reporter on her front steps exactly where he could put his camera.
Elias thanked her and went back to work. But that evening, he saw Viven standing alone in the great room with the television on mute, watching his own face slide across the screen beneath the words Gold Digger in overalls. Her hands were clenched so tightly at her sides that her knuckles had gone white. She was not angry for herself. That was the moment Elias understood the attack was working.
By Wednesday, the shareholders were calling. By Thursday, a coalition of them, led quietly by Damian, had filed a formal demand. The annual shareholder meeting was set for the 27th of December. On the agenda was a vote of no confidence in the chief executive. Unless, the letter suggested politely, Miss Blackwood chose to end her sham marriage and restore the dignity of the company.
That night, Elias stood in the doorway of Viven's office. She had not slept in 2 days. Her desk was buried in papers. "I'm going to go," he said. She looked up sharply.
"Go where?" "Back to my apartment. If I'm gone, they have nothing left to attack you with. You tell them it was a mistake. You keep your company.
Viven rose slowly from her chair. Her voice when it came was quiet and furious. Do you think I married you because I needed someone to hide behind? No. Then don't you dare make that decision for me. He held her gaze for a long moment.
Then he nodded once and stepped into the room. All right, he said. Then let me help. He pulled a chair up to her desk and began reading. Vivienne watched him from across the desk.
She had spent her whole career surrounded by analysts who build by the hour and talked more than they read. Elias did not talk. He read every page slowly, marking small numbers in the margin with a pencil stub he kept in his shirt pocket. Around midnight, without looking up, he held out his hand. She did not know what he wanted.
Then she realized and she put her own coffee cup into it. He drank half and gave it back. Neither of them said a word. It was, she would think later, the most intimate thing anyone had ever done in that office. For three nights, Elas barely slept.