Viv stays inside her apartment for almost a week, depressed and uncertain what to do. Her mood swings between total lethargy, where she can’t do anything but lie on the sofa for hours, staring at the TV or into empty space, and cold, visceral anger that’s quite unlike her. The smallest provocation can set off that new and ugly side. When the cork breaks off inside the neck of a bottle of red wine on Thursday, she gives a howl of rage and hurls the bottle against the kitchen tiles. It shatters, spraying the kitchen with red liquid that pools at her feet in a sea of glass shards. Shaking, she storms from the room and hides under the covers on her bed for over an hour.

But when she’s calmed down a little, she tells herself she’s not that far gone. She can’t leave such a mess for the housekeeper to deal with.

So she retrieves a small broom and a dustpan from the hall closet and goes back into the kitchen. The heavy smell of red wine settles in the back of her throat. Shuddering, she scoops the shards into the dustpan, and then mops the wine off the floor. Her knees and back ache with the effort. When she’s done, the only evidence of what happened here is a cracked tile on the wall and the smell of red wine, which will linger for days.

As she brushes the last shards into the trashcan, a small piece nicks her index finger. Viv stares as a tiny blood bubble begins to form, and for the first time since she came to New York she seriously contemplates returning to LA.

Viv shakes herself out of that stupor, pours a glass of champagne, which is medicinal now, and sits on the sofa for a good, long pep talk to herself. The vision of Mother comes floating from her unconsciousness unbidden, but this time, Viv doesn’t chase it away. It’s from Annushka she learned all the things she tells herself now.

Aubert women don’t quit. They decide on a goal, and then sees things through to the end, whatever happens. If something is worth wanting, Mother always says, it’s worth fighting for. And Vivienne Aubert always gets what she wants. She has done so ever since she could stand on her own two feet. And she deserves this; she has waited for it long enough. No detective will get between her and Damien, the father of her future children.

As long as she stands on her own two feet, she’ll fight. There’s no other option.

She wanted to get to the penthouse early. If the detective is staying there again, he’ll leave early for work. But it doesn’t matter; Viv is determined not to dither any longer. Whether or not Damien has company, she’ll talk to him today. But when she wakes up it’s already eleven a.m. Groaning, Viv clambers out of bed. She has to stop with the booze; it’s so bad for the baby.

“As soon as we’re together properly, I will,” she says to the showerhead as she holds her face to the spray, letting the water wash away the stink of alcohol and the memory of yesterday’s tears.

Bolstered by the pep talk she gave herself the night before, Viv tells the cab driver to let her out right outside Damien’s door. She makes straight for the bell and rings it before she can change her mind.

The speaker next to the little panel with the buzzers crackles, and a moment later Damien’s surprised voice says, “Vivienne?”

“Hey,” she replies, smiling into the camera and trying to sound casual and cheerful. “Can I come in?”

There’s no response, but a moment later the door starts to hum. Viv pulls it open and steps into the entrance hall.

Damien is waiting in the open door of the penthouse, leaning on the doorframe with his left shoulder, holding the doorknob with his right. His face isn’t welcoming, and Viv’s steps falter as she approaches.

“Why’re you here?” he asks, his voice flat.

“Can I at least come in?” she snaps before she can stop herself. She takes a deep breath and tries again. “I’ve come to apologize. Can we talk? Please?” She tries a tremulous smile.

His gray eyes grow a little softer, and he nods. Stepping aside, he waves her inside. As he closes the door and turns around, Viv takes her chance. She steps up close and puts a hand on his arm. “I’m really sorry, Damien,” she says, giving him a coy look from under her lashes. “Can’t we start again?”

His expression is troubled, and he takes a step back. Viv frowns. Why’s he being like this? Before she can think of an explanation he says, “Start what, Viv? I’m sorry if we got our lines crossed, but—”

“Damien, there’s something I’ve got to tell you,” Viv interrupts him, but just then the doorbell rings.

With a pained look on his face, Damien turns toward the panel by the door. His shoulder hides the little video screen that shows the entrance, but he gives a sigh and buzzes in whoever is downstairs. Without turning around, he says, “Leave, Vivienne. Please.”

“It’s him, isn’t it?” Viv hisses, not caring anymore to hide her anger. “That cop. This is all his fault. We were”

“We were what?” Damien interrupts. His voice rises in anger, and he turns to face her. “I made a mistake, and I said I’m sorry. Brad has nothing to do with it.”

She can’t listen to this. He doesn’t deserve her, or the baby. She’ll not tell him, not now. With an angry glare she pulls open the door. “Fine! I’m going! But don’t think this is over, Damien. Not by a long shot!”