Chapter 3 Get the hell out of my office!

Nothing was as easy as Viviane had expected.

In the first few days, Viviane attended physical therapy and pushed herself to keep up with her daughter. As soon as she was discharged from the hospital, she returned to São Paulo and waited a week before insisting that her mother take her to her old house.

"Pietro doesn't live here!" Otávia revealed. "Your ex-husband sold the house and signed the divorce papers just before being transferred to the company headquarters in Los Angeles."

Things became even more complicated. Viviane was still frail and much thinner. She was a skinny woman who hardly looked like the healthy one she had been.

Otavia whispered, "He remarried!"

"Please, don't say another word." Vivian said softly.

"You are to blame!" Otávia got into a fight. "You abandoned Pietro. You might have been alright, taking care of your family, if you had stayed and fought.

"What family?" That was the first time Vivian faced her mother. "On the last night I spent in that house, he assaulted me and raped me. I almost died because of my daughter! That's why I ran away from that bastard."

With her back still turned, Otavía covered her tearful eyes. She could not accept Viviane's words, and so she denied them.

"I am going to the bathroom!"

"Truth hurts, doesn't it, Mom?" Viviane said, raising her voice.

She glanced at her short and rather pathetic mother that had given up after losing her husband and still managed to take her granddaughter's side. Using her crutch to support her, Viviane, at the open window, with her back to the room and the cortile, looked at the stars.

Viviane kept observing the cars from the fourth floor of the building going uptown. The call of death was very strong inside her. But what if Sofia needed her? Pietro had refused the child from the very beginning, so why had he taken the girl? She shut her eyes and started to imagine ways to recover her lost daughter.

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A year later, Viviane went to physical therapy and her neurology appointments without her mother.

One day, she took the chance to go to the Welsch Corporation building, but the receptionist denied her entry. She even tried to bypass the security guard but was stopped before reaching the administration floor.

Two years after waking from the coma, she had lost hope. She spent her days locked in her room, depressed. One day, she opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. That same day, her daughter was turning four. Viviane wondered what Pietro would do for her daughter's birthday. Would he take her to Disney? Or throw a party with whipped cream cake and unicorn balloons?

Viviane covered her head and sighed. She was lying to herself. Pietro had always hated celebrating birthdays. He rarely celebrated holidays with her, let alone with an unwanted daughter.

"Get up, Viviane!" Otávia turned on the light. "Out of that bed, now!"

"Do you know what day it is?"

"Stop torturing yourself over this. You'll have other children soon."

Viviane lifted her head, shocked by the absurdity.

"Did you think that when my brother died?"

Otávia swallowed hard. That subject was still painful. Viviane's brother had overdosed at a party while celebrating his college entrance exam results.

"Sorry, Mom!"

Viviane got out of bed and tried to hug her, but Otávia stepped back.

"I've been very patient with you, but this has gone too far," Otávia complained. "Take a shower and find a job. You need to leave my house."

Viviane rubbed her face. She shouldn't have brought up that topic. Talking about her brother's death was like touching an unhealed wound.

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Two weeks later, Viviane went to her old school and spoke with the principal, who was sympathetic but said there were no vacancies.

She spent the morning looking for a job and dropping off resumes at private schools in the city. Passing by the Welsch Corporation building, she parked and walked toward where her ex-husband worked.

She bumped into the same man she had seen at a restaurant more than four years ago. Despite his inscrutable expression, he was handsome. Viviane had a faint memory of the man with brown hair and a defined jawline.

"I'm sorry!" a hoarse voice said. "Excuse me," he added in Portuguese this time.

"Don't you watch where you're going?" she snapped. "Move out of my way; I'm in a hurry."

Executives paused to look at the woman, still walking with the help of a crutch. She limped across the white tiled floor to the reception.

"I want to speak to Mr. Welsh."

"Sorry, he only sees people by appointment."

"My ex-husband is on the board. Pietro Müller!"

"One moment!" The slender receptionist typed quickly, checked her computer screen, and then picked up the phone. "Good morning, is Mr. Müller available?" she asked, frowning. "Thank you, and sorry for the trouble." The woman in a black suit glanced at the anxious Viviane. "Dr. Müller has been transferred out of the country."

"Can I have his phone number?"

"Sorry, that's out of my authority," the receptionist said, turning to help someone else.

Not knowing what to do, Viviane rubbed her eyes. She heard the receptionist murmur something about sending nanny candidates to her office.

"Mr. Welsh wants me to find a nanny by the end of today."

"Hi!" Viviane insisted.

"I already told you, I can't help you," the receptionist replied.

"I'm one of the candidates for the nanny position..."

The HR manager looked at her with disdain.

"Follow me!"

On the administration floor, Viviane waited. Young, delicate-looking women arrived and sat next to her. There were four blondes and one brunette.

"She won't be hired!" one candidate whispered, raising her chin at Viviane's crutch. "A child runs a lot and makes trouble; you need to be healthy and strong."

Despite the negativity, the desperate mother refused to give up. She was determined to take this job to find her daughter.

"Viviane Bernardi," the manager called.

Leaving the crutch behind, she struggled toward the door under condemning stares.

"I couldn't find your resume," the woman on the other side of the desk said.

"My ex-husband recommended me for the position," Viviane lied boldly.

"Is that so?" She raised her thick eyebrows.

"Pietro Müller."

"Oh, yes!" The robust woman frowned and organized the papers on her desk. "Have you worked with children before?"

"I'm a teacher," Viviane smiled, recalling her work. "I love children. I taught for over ten years in a school."

"That's good!" the manager said, pleased. "Do you speak Portuguese?"

"Sim, eu falo!" she answered quickly.

"Great!" The manager returned the smile.

"Your resume is excellent, but how would you handle a child running around the park?"

Embarrassed, Viviane glanced at one of her legs and sighed. Her limitation could be an obstacle for the coveted CEO nanny position.

"I understand," she said, standing. "Thank you very much."

As she left the room, Viviane didn't even pick up her crutch. The next candidate was called while she waited for the elevator. She felt so discouraged that she stepped in and stopped beside the same man she had bumped into in the hotel lobby.

"Where do you think you're going?" he asked her.

The door to the private elevator opened into a white room, adorned with paintings and mirrors that made the large office appear even more sophisticated.

Viviane's cheeks burned, and her skin flushed when she saw the man sitting behind the massive desk.

"I'm sorry!" she stammered, standing still, trying to recover from her embarrassment. "How do I get out of here?"

"With this!" Gabriel said, holding up an access card and tossing it onto the desk. "What are you doing in my company?"

"I came for a nanny interview, but..." she trailed off, unable to finish. She was unable to articulate anything after the uncomfortable situation.

Not only had she ended up in the owner's office, but she also felt ashamed of how she had treated Gabriel just moments before the interview.

"What's your name?" Gabriel's impassive expression scrutinized her as if analyzing every detail.

In a hushed voice, she replied, "Viviane Bernardi,sir."

Gabriel scribbled something on a piece of paper and gave her a piercing look. At that moment, Viviane realized her chance of finding her daughter was slipping away. So she asked, "Could you open it, please, Mr. Welsh?" She stepped aside as he exhaled heavily and went to the white door.

"Get the hell out of my office!" he ordered, gesturing toward the elevator.

Resigned, she limped into the metal box.

In the private elevator mirror, she noticed her wrinkled white blouse and unkempt hair. Her dull, frizzy strands were pulled into a messy bun. Not even her impressive resume could help her secure this position.