Vivienne shuts the door of Nick’s apartment and glances down at herself to be sure that she has retrieved all of her belongings. Pumps? Check. Dress? Thank the gods. Great legs and overwhelming sense of sexual superiority? Of course. It isn’t until she is lazily pressing the button for the elevator that the daughter of Poseidon can finally snap open the clutch in her hand and tug out her phone. This moment has been nearly three years in the making and, now, as she unceremoniously types in what has grown to be an unfamiliar number, Viv knows that this is it–– she’s prepared.
She lifts the phone casually to her ear and waits for an answer (or, more accurately, answering machine).