POV Jocelyn

Eyes followed me before I even reached my desk. Not the usual quick glances or polite nods—these were longer, slower, hungry. They weren’t curious. They were satisfied.

No one said anything. They didn’t need to.

Someone had already spoken for them.

By midmorning, a message popped up in my inbox flagged as urgent. HR. Attached was a screenshot of my résumé—only, it wasn’t mine. At least not the one I’d submitted. Degrees I didn’t earn. Titles I never claimed. Dates twisted, made to look like a cover-up.

A second message followed five minutes later.

Anonymous tip: She’s faking everything. The baby’s a leverage play. Wolfe’s sleeping with a fraud.

And then the headlines started.

Jocelyn Hartwell: Cinderella or Con?

Baby, Boss, and Bedroom—The Wolfe Drama Unleashed.

Too Convenient: From Secretary to Penthouse.

Each headline is more venomous than the last. My phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. Messages from numbers I didn’t recognize. Screenshots sent to Helena.

My sister called twice and hung up. Even the nurse’s line blinked with a withheld number.

The worst part wasn’t what they were saying. It was that Zayden said nothing.

I waited—for a text, a call, a press release. For something to signal that he still had my back. But silence is its own kind of betrayal.

I tried to keep my head down. Focus on Mia. Pretend the walls weren’t caving in.

But it got harder with every hallway walk, every turned shoulder, every meeting I was suddenly excluded from.

The final blow came in the elevator. A junior analyst stared directly at my badge and whispered, “So that’s her.”

Not “Jocelyn.” Not “Mia’s mother.”

Just her.

By nightfall, I couldn’t breathe. So I called Helena.

She didn’t hesitate. No questions. No delay.

Two hours later, she was waiting in the dimly lit parking garage under Wolfe Tower, coat barely buttoned, face carved from fury.

Zayden stepped out of the executive lift as if summoned. No coat. No phone in hand. His jaw was tense, unreadable.

Helena didn’t wait.

“She’s breaking, and you’re watching like it’s a damn documentary.”

He didn’t flinch.

“You think keeping quiet makes you noble? Like you’re above the mess?” She took a step forward. “You’re not.”

He opened the car door like she hadn’t spoken.

Her laugh was bitter. “You think loving Mia means you can ignore the woman who raised her? Who held her through chemo and night terrors and blood tests while you were busy building a legacy?”

His silence was a slap.

She leaned in closer. “You’re not just letting her drown, Zayden. You’re handing out anchors.”

He got in the car. Coward.

Back at the penthouse, I was folding Mia’s blanket for the fourth time when the door opened again.

Not Zayden. Landon. He looked exhausted—tie half-loose, hair mussed, eyes darting like he hadn’t slept in days.

“I know it’s late,” he said, stepping inside uninvited, “but I have something you need to see.”

I didn’t rise. Didn’t offer tea. Just waited. He held out a manila folder like it might explode.

“The attacks? They weren’t random. They weren’t internet trolls or company gossip.”

I took the folder and opened it with stiff fingers. Printouts. Emails. Server logs. IP chains.

“You’re telling me this was coordinated?” I asked.

Landon didn’t blink. “I’m telling you it was designed.”

He paused. “By Vivienne.”

I froze.

“She paid an entire firm. Reputation management. Image warfare. They planted stories, altered your file in the system, even staged fake leaks to the board.”

My breath hitched.

“She posed as an anonymous insider and claimed you were blackmailing Zayden for child support.”

My hands trembled. “Why would she go this far?”

His voice was quiet now. “Because she’s losing her grip. On him. On the company. And she thinks you’re the reason.”

The air turned heavier when the door opened again.

Zayden stepped inside.

Landon didn’t look at him.

He pointed at the folder. “She deserves to know.”

Zayden looked at the pages in my hand. His expression didn’t change. Just tightened.

“You knew?” he asked Landon.

“I confirmed it last night.”

“And you didn’t come to me?”

“I came to her.” Landon’s voice cracked. “Because you didn’t.”

Zayden stared at the floor.

I watched him for a beat. Waited for a word, an apology, a defense. Anything.

Nothing came.

The kitchen counter behind me still held the herbal tea I hadn’t touched. Mia’s backpack sat near the hallway, half-zipped. There were pictures we hadn’t framed, clothes I hadn’t unpacked, plans I hadn’t dared to make.

And suddenly, I couldn’t stay another second.

I left the room without a sound.

Mia was sleeping when I reached her. I pressed a kiss to her forehead, grabbed the essentials, and zipped the rest. Her sketchbook.

The tiger plush. Her prescriptions. Her favorite socks. I packed in silence, not with rage—but with finality.

He didn’t come after me.