POV Jocelyn

“Fuck my life sideways.”

The text comes through at 10:17 PM while I’m reading Mia a bedtime story about brave little mice who go on adventures and always find their way home. Because of course it does.

Because the universe has a twisted sense of humor and excellent timing when it comes to ruining my evenings.

Z. Wolfe: My penthouse. Now. Bring the Bowman contracts and Yamamoto proposals. Security will clear you up.

“Mommy has to go to work, baby,” I whisper, kissing Mia’s forehead.

She’s been having a rough day—the new chemo cocktail is making her nauseous as hell, and she hasn’t kept food down since lunch.

“Will you be back before breakfast?” Her voice is small, tired, but those green eyes look at me with complete trust.

“Always, sweetheart. Always.”

But honestly? I have no fucking clue what this psycho wants at 10 PM on a Tuesday.

Probably some emergency revision to a contract that could totally wait until morning but apparently the world will end if it’s not handled with immediate corporate precision.

The penthouse elevator ride feels like ascending to my own execution. Security waves me through without question—apparently Mr. Wolfe’s late-night summons are routine enough that they don’t even blink anymore.

“Mr. Wolfe?” I call out, stepping into his ridiculously opulent living room that screams money and emotional unavailability. “I have the documents you requested.”

Silence.

Perfect. Drag me away from my sick kid to play hide and seek in your corporate palace of solitude and overpriced art.

Then I hear it. Rhythmic impacts. Like someone’s beating the shit out of something with the kind of focused violence that would concern normal people.

“Mr. Wolfe?” I follow the sound down a hallway that’s probably worth more than my entire existence, past walls lined with art that belongs in museums. “The contracts are here.”

The noise is coming from behind a partially open door. I push it wider, intending to announce myself properly before interrupting whatever rich-person stress relief he’s engaged in—

Holy. Fucking. Hell.

Zayden’s in the center of what’s clearly his private gym, attacking a heavy bag with brutal precision that would make professional fighters weep with envy. Completely shirtless.

Sweat gleaming on skin that’s carved like some Greek god’s wet dream, muscles rippling with each devastating punch that could probably break someone’s face.

But it’s not his abs—though they’re definitely worth a moment of inappropriate workplace appreciation. It’s not his shoulders or the way his hair is damp with sweat or how his body moves like controlled violence wrapped in perfect genetics.

It’s the tiger.

Massive. Sprawling across his entire back from shoulder blades down to his waist.

Every detail exactly as I remembered from seven years ago when I’d traced those lines with trembling fingers in a hotel room before terror sent me running into the night.

The documents crash to the floor.

Contracts scatter like my sanity, my carefully constructed reality, my ability to form coherent thoughts.

The world tilts, spins, implodes like a dying star taking my entire universe with it.

This is him. The stranger from the masquerade gala. The man who’d made love to me like I was something precious instead of a scholarship kid in a borrowed dress.

Mia’s father.

All this time, three weeks of hostile workplace tension, of inappropriate dreams, of fighting an attraction I couldn’t explain… I’ve been working for my daughter’s father.

The man whose tattoo I’d recognized the morning after as the symbol of a criminal syndicate I’d heard whispered about in dark corners.

The realization had sent me fleeing his hotel room in terror before he woke, stealing away like a thief carrying the world’s most dangerous secret.

The man who has no idea he has a daughter.

Zayden spins at the sound of my clumsy document avalanche, green eyes flashing with annoyance that quickly shifts to something darker. More calculating when he sees my pale face and probably shell-shocked expression.

“Ms. Hartwell. I didn’t hear you come in.”

Those eyes. Jesus Christ, those are Mia’s eyes.

The exact same shade of green that I’ve been staring at every day for six years without making the connection because apparently I’m the most oblivious person alive.

How did I not see it? How did I not know?

How did I work for this man for weeks without recognizing the eyes that haunt my dreams and light up my daughter’s face?

“I’m sorry,” I manage, dropping to my knees to gather the scattered papers with hands that shake. “I called out, but you were… I should have waited in the living room.”

Seven years of carefully constructed distance.

Seven years of protecting my daughter from a world she doesn’t belong in.

Seven years of telling myself I made the right choice by running, by keeping this secret, by raising her alone.

And here I am face-to-face with the truth I’ve been running from. Literally on my hands and knees picking up contracts while my daughter’s father stands half-naked three feet away.

Completely unaware that he’s looking at the mother of his child.

He moves toward me with that predatory grace I’ve come to recognize, and I force myself not to remember how those same muscles had felt under my desperate hands. How his skin had tasted like salt and expensive cologne.

How he’d looked at me like I was the only woman in the universe worth seeing.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

The irony of his words hits like a physical blow. I have seen a ghost, indeed.

The ghost of a night that changed everything. The ghost of the man who gave me the most precious thing in my life without even knowing it existed.

“I’m fine,” I lie, forcing myself to stand and organize the contracts with professional efficiency. “Just tired. It’s been a long day.”

He’s studying me with that calculating gaze that sees too much, notices everything, and I realize I need to get the fuck out of here before he notices how badly I’m shaking.

Before he starts asking questions I can’t answer without destroying both our lives.

“The Bowman contracts need your signature by midnight for the Tokyo meeting,” I say, my voice only slightly higher than normal, “and the Yamamoto proposals require your review before the morning call with their board.”

Professional. Competent. Completely normal assistant behavior.

Nothing to see here except a woman doing her job and definitely not having a complete psychological breakdown.

He nods, but his eyes never leave my face. Studying. Analyzing. Like he’s trying to solve a puzzle that keeps changing shape.

“Leave them on my desk in the study. I’ll handle them after I shower.”

I turn to go, desperate to escape before this secret destroys everything I’ve built, everything I’ve fought for.

“Ms. Hartwell?”

I freeze, my hand on the door frame, every muscle in my body going rigid.

“Next time, don’t hesitate to interrupt my workout. Business always comes first.”

The casual dismissal confirms every fear I’ve had about keeping this secret. This man feels nothing for me.

Shows no recognition of our shared past. No flicker of memory for the woman who’d run from his hotel room like she was escaping a burning building.

And he’s planning to marry Vivienne Ashford, the ice queen who treats people like disposable accessories.

I walk out of his penthouse like I’m walking away from an explosion, professional and composed until the elevator doors close and I can finally fall apart in private.

My daughter’s father just asked me to fetch him contracts and I still have no fucking idea what I’m going to do about it.