Zayden’s POV

The envelope lands on my desk like a fucking bomb.

No return address. Just my name in perfect block letters that scream “anonymous threat” louder than a megaphone.

I flip it over. Again. Because apparently I’m a masochist who enjoys prolonging my own torture.

“Sir?” Marcus pokes his head through my door. “Your 3 PM is here.”

“Cancel it.”

“But—”

“Cancel. Everything. Now.”

He disappears without another word. Smart man.

I slice the envelope open with my thumb, because letter openers are for people who aren’t already bleeding internally.

The photograph hits my desk face-up.

Green eyes. My green eyes. Staring back at me from a six-year-old face framed by midnight curls.

She’s hugging a tiger plush that’s practically bigger than she is, mid-laugh, like someone just told her the world’s best secret.

You have a daughter.

The words are scrawled across the bottom in thick black ink, casual as a grocery list.

“What the actual fuck.”

My hands are shaking. Actually shaking. I haven’t shaken since I was twelve and Dad found out I’d been sneaking food to the stray dog behind our building.

Seven years. Seven fucking years I’ve been searching for the woman from the charity gala. The one in the silver dress who disappeared like smoke before I could get her name. The one who’s haunted every decision, every relationship, every goddamn moment since.

And she’s been here. Right here. Filing my reports and organizing my calendar while I treated her like just another employee.

While our daughter—Christ, our daughter—fights cancer twenty blocks away.

The math is brutal and undeniable. The timeline fits like a custom-tailored nightmare.

I grab my secure line. The one reserved for situations that require absolute discretion and zero questions.

“Yeah.”

“I need a full background check on Jocelyn Hartwell. Everything. Medical records, employment history, who she’s fucked, what she had for breakfast last Tuesday. And I need it yesterday.”

“How deep do you want me to go?”

“Ocean floor deep. And Marcus? If this gets out, I’ll bury you so far underground they’ll need archaeological equipment to find your remains.”

The line goes dead.

I stare at the photograph again. That smile. Christ, that smile could power half of Manhattan.

My daughter.

Maybe. Probably.

Fuck.

Through my office glass, I can see Jocelyn at her desk, hunched over spreadsheets like they hold the secrets of the universe. Hair falling in her face, bottom lip caught between her teeth in concentration.

She’s beautiful in that exhausted, fierce way that makes my chest tight. Always has been, from the moment she walked into my office looking like she’d rather be literally anywhere else.

Now I know why.

I’m the ghost of her worst mistake, walking around in an expensive suit, signing her paychecks while being completely oblivious to the fact that I’m probably funding my own daughter’s medical bills.

The irony would be hilarious if it wasn’t so fucking devastating.

My phone buzzes. Text from an unknown number.

Want to know more? Meet me at Pier 47. Midnight. Come alone.

Anonymous threats and midnight meetings. This day just keeps getting better.

I watch Jocelyn pack up her desk with military precision. Every movement calculated for maximum efficiency. She grabs her bag, heads for the elevators.

Something makes me follow. Call it instinct. Call it the fact that my entire world just imploded and I need to understand exactly how deep this rabbit hole goes.

I step into the hall just as the elevator doors are closing. Catch a glimpse of platinum hair and predatory smile.

Vivienne.

Fuck. This can’t be good.

I take the stairs—faster, more control—and reach the lobby just as the elevator dings open.

“—left my scarf in Zayden’s office,” Vivienne’s saying, all sugar-sweet venom. “Can’t risk freezing these perfect vocal cords, can I?”

She’s positioned herself between Jocelyn and escape, personal space clearly not existing in her vocabulary.

Jocelyn hits the elevator button harder than necessary. Professional mask firmly in place, but I can see the tension in her shoulders. The way she’s holding herself like she’s bracing for impact.

“Sorry,” Vivienne coos, deliberately bumping into Jocelyn as the elevator arrives.

They step inside together. Predator and prey in a steel box.

I move closer to the elevator bank, staying just out of sight but close enough to hear.

“You know,” Vivienne’s voice drops to that particular whisper designed to carry, “you can’t trust the help. They’re always so… ambitious.”