The fight had drained out of her face, leaving behind a pale, hollowedout expression. She placed the phone on the counter and sat on the wobbly stool at the island. "Lawyers bailed? " Roland asked. He poured a cup of black coffee and pushed it toward her. David cited a conflict of interest, Vivien said quietly.
Her fingers traced the rim of the cheap ceramic mug. Richard got to him. He's cutting off my oxygen. If I can't get an injunction filed by Friday, the board will ratify the vote. It becomes permanent.
I'll be bought out at a fraction of my shares and I'll lose the company. Your father's company," Roland corrected. She glared at him. "My company? I doubled the market cap in four years.
He just laid the bricks. I built the empire. " "And then you filled it with people who would sell you out for a nickel," Roland said. He picked up his own coffee. "You managed by fear, Vivien. Fear is highly effective when you hold the purse strings.
The second someone else holds them, the fear evaporates. You didn't buy loyalty. You rented obedience. The lease is up. Viven opened her mouth to argue, but the words died in her throat.
She looked at Khloe, who was oblivious to the highstakes autopsy happening 3 ft away, humming while she colored. "I have to get to school," Khloe announced, dropping her crayon. She looked at Vivien. Are you going to wear those clothes all day? Vivien blinked.
I don't have other clothes. My dad has big shirts. You can borrow one. Yours is wrinkly. Chloe hopped off the chair, grabbed her yellow backpack, and trotted to the front door.
Roland grabbed his keys. I'll be back in 20 minutes. Don't touch the stove. Don't answer the door. Drink your coffee.
When the door clicked shut, the silence in the apartment was deafening. Viven Croft, the woman who dictated the flow of global capital, was alone in a queen's walkup, being told not to touch the stove. She looked down at her wrinkled silk blouse. Then she walked into Roland's bedroom. It was sparse.
A bed, a dresser, a small nightstand with a stack of paperback thrillers. She opened a drawer, found a clean, oversized gray hoodie, and pulled it over her head. It smelled like fabric softener and cheap cedar wood. It was the most comfortable thing she had worn in a decade. When Roland returned, he found Viven sitting on the living room floor, her laptop, the only other thing she had packed in her suitcase, open on the coffee table.
Spreadsheets and legal documents were reflected in the dark bags under her eyes. "I can bypass the primary firm," she muttered as Roland walked in. "I know a boutique litigation guy in Brooklyn. He hates Richard. If I can promise him a seat on the board, "Stop," Roland said.