POV Jocelyn

The sun was barely up when my phone rang, and I already knew it was the hospital before I looked at the screen.

I was already dressed, bag in hand, hair scraped into something vaguely professional. But nothing about me felt composed.

Not after last night. Not after that look on Zayden’s face when he saw Mia’s tiger drawing.

He’d studied it too long. Like he was trying to remember something he didn’t know he’d forgotten. Which is impossible, because men like Zayden Wolfe don’t forget anything.

They catalog information like profit margins and file it away for future strategic use.

I answered on the third ring. “This is Jocelyn.”

The voice on the other end wasn’t a nurse. It was Dr. Feldman, Mia’s lead specialist. The woman who holds my daughter’s life in her extremely capable but terrifying hands.

“Ms. Hartwell, good morning. I wanted to speak to you personally before we finalize her enrollment.”

I perched on the edge of my couch, heart doing that thing where it forgets how to beat properly. “Enrollment?”

“For the immunotherapy trial. Mia qualifies—barely. But there’s a catch.”

Course there fucking is. There’s always a catch. That’s like the universe’s signature move—dangling hope in front of desperate mothers, then yanking it away at the last possible second.

“We need legal consent from both parents. Full documentation. It’s a new FDA directive for trials involving minors.”

My throat closed around words that suddenly weighed about seventeen tons each. “There’s no father listed. On the certificate, I mean.”

“I know,” she said gently, like she’s discussing the weather instead of potentially signing my daughter’s death warrant. “But we need him. Legally.”

I couldn’t breathe. The walls of my shitty apartment suddenly felt like they were closing in, ready to crush me into paste. “He doesn’t know,” I whispered, voice barely audible even to myself. “And I can’t tell him.”

“You may not have a choice,” she replied with that clinical kindness doctors perfect in medical school. “If you want her in this trial, we need that signature.”

I said nothing. Just nodded like an idiot, though she couldn’t see me, and ended the call with trembling fingers.

I stared at the wall for a long time. At the photo of Mia in her pink beanie, clutching her tiger plush like it was armor against everything trying to kill her.

She looked so alive in that picture. So bright. Like she believed everything would be okay as long as I said so.

But I don’t have answers anymore.

Just secrets that are starting to rot from the inside out.

Seven years. Seven fucking years I’ve been carrying this around like a tumor, and now it’s metastasizing into my daughter’s only chance at survival.

The charity gala. That silver dress I bought with tip money from three different jobs. The way Zayden looked at me like I was the only person in a room full of Manhattan’s elite. How we talked for hours about everything and nothing.

How his laugh made my chest tight with something I’d never felt before or since.

How I disappeared before he could get my name because women like me don’t get fairytale endings with men like him.

How I found out I was pregnant six weeks later and decided he’d never need to know about the one-night stand that changed my entire fucking existence.

Brilliant plan, Jocelyn. Really thought that one through.

Now my daughter is dying, and the man who could save her thinks I’m just his chronically anxious assistant who spills coffee and can’t work a filing system without having minor breakdowns.

The irony is so brutal it’s almost artistic.

I need Zayden Wolfe’s signature to save our daughter’s life.

The daughter he doesn’t know exists. The daughter I’ve been protecting from him for six years because I convinced myself that was the right thing to do.

God, I’m such a fucking idiot.

My phone buzzes again. For one delusional second, I think it’s Dr. Feldman calling back with some miraculous loophole that doesn’t require me to destroy my carefully constructed lie.

It’s not.

Unknown number. Probably another debt collector wanting to discuss my student loan default or medical bills.

Perfect timing, universe. Really appreciate the comedic relief during my emotional breakdown.

“Hello?” My voice sounds foreign, like it’s coming from underwater.

But it wasn’t a debt collector. It was the school.

“Ms. Hartwell? This is Margaret from Lincoln Elementary. I’m calling about Mia.”

The world tilted sideways. My vision went spotty around the edges.

“She collapsed during recess. High fever, unconscious. An ambulance is en route to County General.”

The words hit like physical blows. Collapsed. Unconscious. Ambulance.

“What?” I choked, already moving toward the door. “What happened? Is she awake?”

“The paramedics are with her now. You’ll meet them at the hospital.”

I was running before I hung up. Keys in hand, phone still pressed to my ear like it might give me more information if I held it hard enough.

Blood drained from my face. Legs moving on autopilot through my building, down the stairs, into the street where normal people were having normal Tuesday mornings.

While my six-year-old daughter was unconscious in an ambulance.

While the clinical trial that could save her life sits locked behind legal paperwork requiring the signature of a man who doesn’t know she exists.

While I’m standing on a Manhattan sidewalk, watching my entire world collapse in real time.

Because all I could hear was one line echoing like a scream in my skull.

Mia had collapsed at school.