Billionaire's Ex-Wife ✓

II. Deviously Handsome

Vivian's POV:

"What? Can you please repeat that?"

"I apologize, Miss Blanc, but you're not fit for this position. However, if there were to be another opening, we will surely call you."

In other words, get out.

I nod my head before dragging my legs out of the company. I understand that they prefer someone with more experience and a higher form of education. However, I graduated from Pandora Academy. I should be able to get the job.

Then again, this isn't the first time that someone told me I am unfit for the position. It's always one of the three reasons. One, I'm too young and inexperienced. Two, my high school diploma is too prestigious, so they suggest I pursue a higher degree for the better of my future. Three, my high school diploma is not good enough.

Dragging my legs towards the glass door, my head was hung lowly, looking almost as if I left a funeral.

I did.

The funeral of my future.

The funeral of having a decent meal.

The funeral of acceptance.

I did not carpe diem.

Times like this, I want to crawl back home, but I'm still too ashamed of myself. Two years ago, my parents asked me if I'm undoubtedly sure I wanted to marry Liam, and I gave them a confident: "Yes! Yes! Yes! Yessssss!" only to get a divorce a year later.

What would they think of that?

I want to accomplish at least something - such as getting a job before I return.

My whole life, I've been pampered by my parents, who work from the bottom up to get where they are now. They didn't become wealthy through generations accumulations, rather sacrificing their youths and building a respectful business.

How can I be a proper Blanc if I can't make something out of my first name?

I buried my face in my hands, "Why are you even hiding from your own family? Pride? They probably already know you're divorced by now. Just throw that pride into the toilet and flush it so you can eat some good steak," I grumbled.

I bump into someone, inhaling a sweet green apple and lemonade. I had always loved that scent, "Sorry, my tears and pride are blocking the path," I said, without looking at the person and continuing walking towards the door.

After walking two blocks, barefoot, because no one gives a damn in the city, I reached the bus stop. I held myself onto the silver pole, probably filled with bacteria, and sighed. When the scent of freshly cooked hotdogs invaded my nostrils, I began wailing loudly like walrus. My stomach was growling to the point of no return. "I'll get a job and come back for you one day."

I've been working small jobs here and there, but it's always been seasonal. Right now, my savings is at an all-time low. I don't want to dip into it unless it's something critical like I broke a leg or acid spillage on me.

When the bus arrived, my heels were dangling on my fingertips. My natural untamed hair decided I need to be the lion king today. Earlier I took off my coat, and now it's hanging on my shoulders. I probably look like a daytime drunk.

Settling myself against the glass, I stare out at San Francisco. Yes, I ran from New York to San Francisco. Across the country to get away from my ex-husband.

I ran my fingers down the window and sighed. "Why," I whisper to myself, feeling the bus rattling back and forth. "Why me?" I began hitting my head against the glass, ignoring all the awkward stares.