Billionaire's Ex-Wife ✓

IV. I'm Vivian

Vivian's POV:

I'm not surprised that everyone was staring at me. I'm a woman, barely passing her teenage years, with a baby strap in front of her. I walk towards the secretary, who raises a brow, "Are you here for the interview today?"

I gave her a firm nod, praying she won't kick me out.

"Name, please," she questioned.

"Vivian Blanc," I responded, rattling Marisa up and down, while her small hand grasped onto mine. My eyes drop down towards her name tag - Cheryl Yurtsever.

Cheryl smiles, a genuinely sweet one, "He is a sweetheart," she said, giving me a number.

I snatch the number from her hand before leaning in, causing her eyes to widen." She is indeed pretty," I said before grabbing the bow inside my back pocket and slapping it on her head. Earlier, on my way in, the bow kept slipping off, so I stuck it away. Now, I understand why it's necessary. At that moment, I wonder if that's how Lisa felt.

Cheryl place a hand in front of her mouth, "That's no-"

I position my finger in front of my lip," Shhh... It's okay." I flicked my finger in the air, urging her to lean in closer. "I understand this may be hard to believe, but this baby isn't even mine," I whisper. "It's not noticeable, but I'm black. I think the father cheated on me and had this white baby. Though I'm not sure, I'm still waiting for the genetic result before I confront the dad."

Cheryl gave me a blank look, before bursting into a low laugh. Quickly, she covers her mouth, remembering she is at work. "You got jokes. Use that humor, sweetheart, and they will love you."

I smile, "Thank you," I said, before walking towards the waiting area. Settling Marisa on my lap, I release a deep breath wondering how a mother with children works at the same time. I've been watching Marisa for a total of - I look at my watch - twenty minutes, and I'm already dead. My back is in pain, probably because I'm wearing the baby carrier wrong. No one in the damn bus knows how to put the strap on.

Right, when I was getting comfortable, they decided to call my number - great. I struggle to stand up with a baby and heels, which is one of the hardest things to do. The other interviewers got up and helped me. Oh, so kind. "Thank you."

"Oh, bless you for being so strong," one of the women said, causing me to tilt my head.

"I-I think you misun-" They called my number again, and I waved off the misunderstanding. If having a baby makes others treat me better, then why not take it. I began walking towards the open door.

"This way," Cheryl said, and I followed her. Upon entering a white room, three people were sitting behind the large brown desks. They didn't have friendly smiles on their faces; instead, it seemed that they were already sick of interviewing candidates despite it being 9:30 am.

Before pressing her lip against the paper cup filled with what I assumed to be coffee, the lady in the pink shirt sighs, however, that smile on her face made me expect she poured a bit more than just coffee in it.

Beside her was a young man, a stoned face as he continued scribbling notes on the single sheet of paper. Write anymore, and I believe the friction between the pen and the paper will set course towards a fire.

The last is a bald guy; not only did he not have a smile. He has this hair...this very nice thinned shiny hair that keeps flapping. I watched as the air condition blew on him - the perfect place to position yourself, sir - and it began creating a wave.

Do not laugh.

Do not laugh.

Do not laugh.