My possessive actor husband

The Untitled 1st Episode

Vivienne

Vivienne sat with a rigid, unnatural posture right in the center of the room, her spine perfectly straight against the unforgiving back of the chair while her hands remained clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles turned white. Beneath the forced stillness, her fingers tapped against one another in a restless, erratic rhythm she couldn't seem to control. The silence in the office stretched on, heavy and utterly suffocating, until every passing second felt exponentially longer than the last, weighing down on her chest like lead.

This brief meeting was supposed to be the easiest part of her agonizing week, a simple matter of answering a few predictable questions, flashing a polite, practiced smile, and making a swift departure. Instead, the woman seated across the desk didn't even bother to look up to acknowledge her presence, treating her existence as an inconvenience.

"Your name, please," the woman said flatly, her voice entirely devoid of warmth as she mindlessly flipped through a thick manila file.

"Vivienne Shepherd," Vivienne replied, though her voice came out so soft and tentative that it was instantly swallowed by the vast silence of the room.

"What?" the woman asked, her distracted eyes still glued to the paperwork.

Vivienne swallowed hard, forcing down the lump of nerves rising in her throat. "Vivienne Shepherd," she repeated, consciously throwing more weight into her words this time.

The woman paused, the rhythmic rustling of paper finally stopping as she lifted her head to look at her applicant. "Sorry, I didn't quite catch that. Can you—"

"Just call me Viv," Vivienne interrupted quickly, eager to smooth over the awkwardness as she forced a small, hollow smile onto her face.

The woman gave a curt nod. "Alright, Viv." She glanced back down at the file, tapping her pen against the desk. "I've reviewed your credentials, and I see you have a Bachelor's degree in Economics from the University of Chicago." Her expertly shaped eyebrows lifted slightly in genuine surprise. "That's impressive. Very impressive, actually."

For the briefest, most fragile moment, a tiny flicker of hope sparked inside Vivienne’s chest, making her believe the tide might finally be turning.

Then the woman continued ruthlessly. "Which is exactly why you're entirely overqualified for this position."

The fragile hope vanished instantly, snuffed out like a candle in a gale. Vivienne felt her stomach drop into a hollow pit of despair. "Why?" she asked, the desperate question escaping her lips before her rational mind could stop it.

The interviewer leaned back comfortably in her leather chair, crossing her arms. "You applied for a personal assistant position, Viv. That role has absolutely nothing to do with your advanced field of study, and frankly, looking at this resume, your application doesn't make much sense."

"I don't care," Vivienne blurted out, the raw honesty fracturing her polite facade.

The woman blinked, visibly taken aback by the sudden outburst.

"I need this job," Vivienne pressed on, her voice tight.

A heavy sigh escaped the interviewer's lips as she softened her posture just a fraction. "Look, Viv. You went to an elite school, and you clearly have options out there." Her critical gaze swept over Vivienne’s presentation briefly. "And the person you'd be working for isn't exactly easy to handle. No offense, but you just don't look like someone who could survive working for a man like him."

Vivienne let out a short, sharp, entirely humorless laugh. "I don't think you understand—"

"It's Tessa," the woman interrupted, waving a dismissive hand. "And please stop calling me ma'am. You're making me feel ancient."

Vivienne nodded, swallowing her frustration. "Okay... Tessa." For a long moment, she hesitated on the precipice of submission. Then, something deep inside her finally snapped under the pressure. All the suffocating frustration, all the physical exhaustion, and all the paralyzing fear she'd been carrying around for months rose violently to the surface before she could suppress it.

She leaned forward slightly, narrowing the distance between them. "I need this job," she said, and the words came out stronger, sharper, and more commanding this time. "I don't care if my employer is the devil himself. I need money, Tessa."

Tessa merely stared at her, her professional mask slipping.

Vivienne continued, the desperation fueling a sudden wave of reckless bravado. "And if you don't want me walking out of here and doing something incredibly stupid, like robbing a bank just to pay my rent, then you should hire me."

Silence fell over the room, a complete, ringing silence. Tessa blinked in astonishment; for the first time since the grueling interview had begun, she looked genuinely, utterly surprised. Neither woman spoke for several agonizing seconds as the tension vibrated between them.

Finally, Tessa cleared her throat, adjusting her posture as her professional, detached tone returned like armor. "We'll contact you if you've been selected for the next round. You can go now. And please send the next applicant in on your way out."

Vivienne nodded numbly, realizing the interview was definitively over.

By the time she finally returned to her apartment, a profound, heavy exhaustion had settled deep into her very bones. She pushed the sticky front door open and stepped inside, where the familiar, depressing space greeted her immediately: small, cramped, and quiet. It was far too quiet.

She dropped her heavy bag carelessly beside the worn couch and sank deeply into the sagging cushions, letting out a breath she felt like she'd been holding all day. Her tight shoes hit the floor moments later with two dull thuds. For a long time, she simply sat there in the fading light, staring blankly at the wall, breathing heavily, and trying desperately not to think or feel.

Unfortunately, neither strategy worked.

"Dad..." her voice cracked, the fragile word echoing softly through the empty, shadowy apartment. "Couldn't you have gotten me a job somewhere before leaving me alone with all this crushing debt?"

The sheer bitterness in her own voice startled even her, cutting through the silence. She laughed weakly, though there was absolutely no humor behind the sound. "I'm only twenty-four," she whispered, her chest tightening until it was painful to draw breath. "I'm way too young for this."

The silence that followed her confession felt actively cruel, offering no comfort. "I can't do this anymore," she admitted to the empty room.

No answer came, of course. Instead, the void was filled with memories, too many of them, rushing back to fill the quiet. She remembered how things used to be before the endless hospital visits, before the astronomical medical bills, and before the suffocating mountain of debt accumulated. It had once been just her and her father against the world. Her mother had tragically died giving birth to her younger brother, and neither of them had survived the delivery. That catastrophic loss had utterly shattered her father; even years later, Vivienne could still see the profound sadness that lingered perpetually behind his brightest smiles.

When she was nine years old, they had packed up their lives and moved all the way from South Carolina to California, hoping a change of scenery would offer a fresh start. It never erased the ghost of their pain, but somehow, they managed to build a beautiful life anyway. They opened a small neighborhood bakery, nothing extravagant or luxurious, just enough to live comfortably, enough to laugh through the hard days, and enough to be genuinely happy. Her father had never remarried, no matter how many times she lovingly teased him about finding someone new to share his life with. His heart had belonged entirely to her mother, and it stayed with her in the grave.

Then, the universe shifted, and he got sick. True to his protective nature, he didn't tell her not at first. She noticed the subtle changes slowly over several months: the sudden weight loss, the constant fatigue, and the forced, pained smiles. By the time she finally confronted him, the diagnosis was already incredibly serious.

Everything happened far too quickly after that terrifying day. She quit her corporate job without a single moment of hesitation to become his full-time caretaker. Hospital visits rapidly became their new daily routine, endless doctor appointments filled every square inch of her calendar, and aggressive chemotherapy treatments consumed their entire lives. Yet throughout it all, even on his weakest days, he kept telling her the exact same thing.

"My Vivi..." he would smile warmly, reaching out to pat her hand despite the IV lines. "Go back to work, sweetheart. I'll be fine."

She never listened to him, choosing to stay by his side until the very end. Now, staring at her empty apartment, she found herself wishing with a guilty heart that she actually had listened.

After he passed away, all that remained of his existence were precious memories and a mountain of crippling debt. She tried returning to her old company, but they wouldn't take her back after her abrupt departure. She applied elsewhere, sending out hundreds of resumes to various firms, but she received nothing in return: no interviews, no real opportunities, just automated rejection emails. Eventually, out of sheer desperation, she started taking whatever grueling work she could find: part-time retail jobs, temporary contracts, and grueling odd shifts.

It still wasn't enough to keep the wolves from the door. In the end, she had been forced to sell the bakery—her father's pride and joy, the place he loved most in the world, and the sanctuary that held every memory of him she wanted to keep.

A lone tear slipped down her cheek, followed quickly by another. "I hate my life," she whispered into the dark.

Suddenly, her phone rang, shattering the heavy silence. Vivienne quickly wiped her face with the back of her hand, clearing her throat before answering.

"You're late, and Boogerbitch is in one of her absolute moods today," Kiara's sharp voice instantly filled the room, bursting with chaotic energy.

Despite the tears still wet on her face, Vivienne couldn't help but laugh. "Thanks for covering the start of my shift for me, Kiara."

"Don't thank me just yet," Kiara snorted loudly over the line. "Did you actually get the job, or what?"

Vivienne groaned loudly, throwing an arm over her eyes. "'We'll call you if you've been selected,'" she mimicked, capturing the interviewer's detached, professional tone perfectly. "I am so incredibly tired of hearing that phrase."

Kiara laughed sympathetically on the other end. "Tell you what, I'll come over to your place right after the shift ends."

"You offered to cover the whole thing, remember?" Vivienne reminded her with a faint smirk.

"Yeah, yeah, I know, don't rub it in." A genuine smile finally tugged at the corners of Vivienne’s lips.

"Bring my babies," Vivienne pleaded softly.

Kiara immediately understood the code. Comfort food, specifically, the greasy, carbohydrate-heavy universal cure for a broken spirit. "Of course I will." There was a brief pause on the line, the tone turning affectionate. "See you in two hours, mamacita."

The call ended with a click. Vivienne dragged herself up from the couch and walked toward her bedroom, every single step feeling heavier and more exhausting than the last. She collapsed onto her unmade bed without even bothering to change out of her interview clothes. The cracked ceiling blurred above her in the dim light of dusk. For a moment, she simply stared into the void. Then, she finally closed her eyes, and for the very first time all day, the chaos in her mind stopped, and everything went quiet.