POV Jocelyn

Radio silence.

That’s my life now. Complete, soul-crushing radio silence that’s somehow louder than actual noise.

No barked commands. No surprise meetings designed to spike my blood pressure into stroke territory. No sudden materializations demanding impossible tasks in timeframes that would make Superman weep.

Just sterile emails that read like legal documents drafted by robots who’ve never experienced human feelings.

Subject: Q3 Reports – Due EOD

Message: Attached. Revise. Submit.

– Zayden Wolfe, CEO of Wolfe Enterprises

That’s it.

The fucking extent of our communication.

Like I’m some random Craigslist contractor instead of the person keeping his professional life from imploding for three weeks straight.

I should feel relief, right? No more psychological warfare disguised as performance management. No more walking on eggshells around mood swings that could rival a hormonal teenager.

No more pretending I don’t notice how his presence makes my skin buzz with electricity that probably violates workplace safety regulations.

Instead, I feel erased.

Deleted from his reality like a typo he regrets making.

The way he looks through me instead of at me, like I’m made of particularly boring glass. How he asks Patricia to relay messages when I’m sitting right there. The calculated timing so we never share elevators, like breathing the same air might be contagious.

Patricia’s having the time of her miserable life.

“Someone’s in the doghouse,” she sing-songs, filing her nails into weapons-grade points. “What’d you do to piss off the king?”

“Besides existing?”

“Must’ve been spectacular. He’s been colder than a witch’s tit.”

“Thanks for that visual, Patricia. Really brightening my day.”

“Just saying. Maybe if you dressed more professionally instead of like you’re auditioning for—”

“Maybe if you minded your business instead of auditioning for Real Housewives of Corporate Hell, we’d all be happier.”

A week of psychological torture passes before the universe throws us a curveball wrapped in shrieking alarms.

Fire drill.

“This is not a drill!” Patricia announces, grabbing her purse like it contains nuclear launch codes. “Everyone out! Move!”

Chaos. Pure, undiluted corporate panic. People shoving toward stairwells, talking over each other, someone’s heel caught in carpet creating human traffic jams.

I’m navigating through the crush of panicking executives when a hand grips mine.

Firm. Warm. Completely fucking unexpected.

I look down at our joined hands—his larger, warmer, completely engulfing mine—then up at him with pure shock.

Zayden’s not looking at me. Jaw set in controlled determination, eyes focused ahead as he guides me through the crowd. But his grip is steady. Protective.

Possessive.

Like he’s claiming ownership over my safety in ways that make my brain short-circuit.

“What are you—” I start, voice breathier than intended.

“Move,” he says quietly, pulling me past flailing executives.

His thumb brushes across my knuckles. Once. Just once. But it sends electricity straight up my arm and into my chest where it sits like a live wire.

This is insane.

We haven’t spoken in a week except through Patricia’s message service. He’s been treating me like inconvenient office equipment that occasionally makes noise.

And now he’s holding my hand like I matter? Like my safety is his responsibility?

“I can walk by myself,” I manage, legs feeling like jello.

“Can you?” He glances down, something unreadable flickering. “Because five seconds ago you were about to get trampled by Jenkins from accounting.”

“I was handling it.”

“You were about to become a casualty of corporate emergency protocol.”

The stairwell is pure nightmare—echoing voices, clicking heels, symphony of professional panic. Someone behind us whines about their manicure. Someone else is already rescheduling meetings like the building might actually be on fire.

But Zayden doesn’t let go.

Keeps me close as we descend fifteen flights, his presence solid and reassuring in ways that make zero sense given our current state of mutual professional hostility.

His hand is warm, steady. I can feel his pulse against my wrist—strong, even, controlled.

Like everything else about him.

“This is ridiculous,” I mutter.

“What is?” His voice is low, close to my ear because of the noise, sending shivers down my spine that have nothing to do with air conditioning.

“Nothing. Forget it.”

When we reach the lobby, the crowd disperses like released prisoners. The hand holding mine should drop away now. Logic dictates it.

Emergency is over. Contact is no longer necessary.

But he doesn’t let go until we’re outside, until the building is emptied, until there’s no emergency justifying contact and no logical reason for him to still be touching me.

Then he drops my hand like it’s a sin he can’t afford to commit.

No explanation. No acknowledgment. No “are you okay” or “glad we didn’t die in an imaginary fire.”

Just back to pretending I don’t exist.

“Asshole,” I whisper, flexing fingers that still tingle from his touch.

He hears me. I know because his shoulders tense and his jaw ticks in that way that means I’ve gotten under his skin.

But he walks away without a word, leaving me on the sidewalk feeling emotionally whiplashed.

Then disappears into the crowd like nothing happened.

Like he didn’t just completely fuck with my head for fifteen flights of stairs and thirty seconds of sidewalk contact.

Welcome back to radio silence, Jocelyn. Population: you and your stupid, confused heart.