POV Jocelyn

Walking into Wolfe Tower the next morning feels like attending my own funeral in business casual.

Two day ago, I told him to fuck himself and his profit-obsessed empire after he called my daughter’s emergency a workplace distraction.

Today, I’m staring at five thousand dollars with his signature on it, trying to process emotional whiplash that could qualify as psychological warfare.

Pretty sure that’s not listed in the employee handbook under “acceptable workplace communication strategies,” right between “appropriate attire” and “sexual harassment policies.”

My stomach is doing acrobatic routines that would make Cirque du Soleil jealous, and I’ve already mentally rehearsed my unemployment speech for Mia.

‘Sorry, baby, Mommy lost the job that was supposed to save your life because she has zero impulse control and the emotional regulation of a rabid wolverine.’

Patricia’s practically glowing when I pass her desk, smile bright enough to power small cities.

“Morning, sunshine. Ready for your exit interview?”

“Can’t wait to discuss my behavioral patterns with HR professionals.”

“Should be educational. For both of you.”

I expect security guards. Termination papers. Ceremonial destruction of my keycard while coworkers watch my spectacular downfall.

Instead, my computer works. Password unchanged. There’s even a new project on my desk with a note: Rush priority – Z.W.

What kind of psychological game is this?

No pink slip. No escort to the parking garage. Just… work. Like previous nuclear meltdown happened in an alternate dimension.

By noon, I’m convinced I’m having a stress-induced hallucination. Maybe I’m actually unconscious in Mia’s hospital room, dreaming about employment that survives explosive honesty.

That’s when his office door opens.

“Ms. Hartwell.”

Here it comes. The delayed execution.

“Sir?”

“My office. Five minutes.”

Corporate death row. More private than public execution, I suppose.

His office smells like leather and intimidation. I perch on the edge of a chair worth more than my car, bracing for professional obliteration.

“About yesterday,” he begins.

“I was completely out of line,” I interrupt, speed-running my own destruction. “Unprofessional, inappropriate, grounds for immediate—”

“You were protecting your daughter.”

The words land like emotional grenades. I blink, convinced auditory hallucinations are joining visual ones.

“I was… what?”

“Your child needed you. You prioritized correctly.” Something flickers behind those green eyes. “That’s not insubordination. That’s proper crisis management.”

I’m gawking at him like he’s speaking ancient languages. “Yesterday you said family emergencies destroy careers.”

“Yesterday I was wrong.”

The admission hits like meteorites striking earth. Zayden Wolfe doesn’t do apologies or acknowledge mistakes or admit human fallibility.

“Thank you,” I say carefully, “for the hospital… donation. But I need something clear.”

He leans back, studying me with calculating intensity. “Which is?”

“I don’t want your pity. Don’t want you thinking I’m some tragic charity case who needs regular financial rescue missions.” I meet his gaze head-on. “And I don’t want you assuming you can buy absolution every time you act like a complete bastard.”

His mouth twitches in what might be amusement. “Understood.”

“I’m serious. This doesn’t make us even. Money doesn’t erase cruelty.”

“Agreed. But understand something as well.” His voice drops to that register that makes my spine tingle inappropriately. “I appreciate your directness. Your honesty. Even your spectacular ability to tell me exactly what you think of my management techniques.”

Heat creeps up my neck. “But?”

“But there are boundaries. Professional ones. Calling me names in office settings crosses those boundaries.”

“Even when you earn those names?”

“Especially then.” Something sharp glitters in his eyes. “Find more creative ways to express your displeasure.”

We’re negotiating some kind of workplace détente that feels more personal than professional. Like we’re establishing rules for a relationship instead of employee conduct.

“So we’re clear?” I ask. “Mutual respect, professional boundaries, no more guilt payments?”

“Crystal clear.”

He extends his hand across the desk. I shake it, his skin warm against mine, contact lasting longer than strictly necessary. Long enough to notice how his thumb brushes across my knuckles.

Long enough to wonder if that was intentional.

The rest of the day passes in hostile, professional silence. I do my job with mechanical precision. Update spreadsheets without creative profanity, organize files without setting them on fire, fetch coffee without spitting in it.

Peak fucking professionalism.

At six PM, my phone buzzes with the ringtone that always makes my chest tight.

“Mommy?” Mia’s voice sounds small and tired, like she’s been fighting battles too big for her six-year-old frame.

“Hey, baby. How are you feeling today?”

“Better, I think. But the doctors keep whispering when they think I can’t hear them. They sound worried, Mama. Really worried.”

“Mia, sweetheart, don’t worry about the grown-ups, okay?” My heart clenches like someone’s squeezing it with a vice grip. “Mommy’s being brave for you. We’re still strong. Still tigers, remember?”

“Promise?”

“Promise, baby girl. You and me against the world. Always and forever.”

I’m so focused on keeping my voice steady, on being the rock she needs me to be, that I don’t notice him at first.

Mr. Wolfe’s standing by the elevator, frozen mid-step like someone hit pause on his entire existence. He must have been heading out, but now he’s just… listening.

His expression is unreadable, but something in his posture has changed. Shoulders tense. Jaw tight. Hands clenched at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to hit something.

“I love you, baby. See you tomorrow, okay?”

When I look up after ending the call, he’s already gone.

Two hours later, I’m back at the office like a complete idiot. I left the signed Yamamoto contracts at home because apparently stress makes me forget basic human functions like breathing and remembering important documents.

Tomorrow’s presentation is worth more money than I’ll see in three lifetimes, so here I am, playing courier at eight PM like some kind of corporate masochist.

The executive floor is dark except for Mr. Wolfe’s office glowing like a beacon of workaholism and psychological disorders.

I swipe my keycard, planning to drop the papers on his desk and vanish before he knows I was here. Quick in, quick out, minimal human interaction.

But when I reach his office, I freeze completely. Through the glass wall, I see them.

Vivienne has him pressed against his desk, her perfectly manicured hands tangled in his hair like she’s trying to claim ownership.

Her body molded against his like she’s attempting to merge their DNA through sheer determination. Her mouth on his with the kind of desperate hunger that makes my stomach revolt.

And for a second, just a fucking second, I see him kissing her back. His hands on her waist. His body responding in ways that make something ugly and sharp twist in my chest.

Then he pulls away, but it’s too late. I’ve already seen everything I need to see.

“Ms. Hartwell.” His voice cuts through the air like a blade, but I don’t respond.

Don’t react. Do not fucking react.

Deep breath. Game face. Professional armor activated.

The door handle feels like it weighs seventeen tons, but I push through because apparently self-preservation isn’t in my skill set.

Don’t look at the forearms.

I looked at the forearms.

Brilliant. Absolutely stellar impulse control, Jocelyn.

“Morrison contracts,” I announce, voice steady enough to pass for human despite my brain currently having a complete meltdown.

I place the documents on his desk with the precision of a bomb disposal expert. Clean lines. No unnecessary movements. Zero lingering.

Professional. Competent.

Definitely not internally combusting over rolled-up dress shirts and the way his jaw tenses when he’s concentrating.

Turn around. Walk out.