POV Jocelyn

Fallout didn’t arrive with smoke. It arrived with fucking headlines.

Every screen lit up like the apocalypse was being broadcast live.

Red banners screaming breaking news. Talking heads dissecting Zayden’s resignation like vultures picking apart roadkill, while finance reporters creamed themselves speculating about dynasty downfalls.

Wolfe Holdings took an immediate hit.

Stocks plummeted faster than my faith in humanity. Investors fled like rats abandoning a sinking yacht. The company’s board released some bullshit damage control statement that fooled absolutely nobody.

Harrison Wolfe’s words carried enough ice to freeze hell:

“My grandson is no longer affiliated with Wolfe Holdings. His actions do not reflect the principles of our institution.”

That should’ve been the end of it. Vivienne made damn sure it wasn’t.

She didn’t just step out of the picture. The bitch detonated it with nuclear precision.

Mid-morning, the story shifted from legacy drama to full-blown scandal.

Photos surfaced across every gossip outlet that had ever existed—private ones, intimate ones, the kind that make you wonder how many photographers are hiding in rich people’s houseplants.

One showed Zayden pouring wine while I laughed at something in the penthouse kitchen. Another caught his hand barely brushing my back.

Mia sat in the background, face turned away, clutching her tiger plush like it could protect her from this insanity.

Didn’t matter that nothing inappropriate was captured. Context doesn’t sell papers. Scandal does.

“Gold-Digger Claims Heir’s Child.”

“Bastard Love Child Sparks Empire Collapse.”

“Jocelyn Hartwell: Secretary or Seductress?”

Jesus fucking Christ.

My name trended within hours. My face splashed across magazine covers I’d never imagined being on—certainly not with headlines that made me sound like a cross between a porn star and a con artist.

Helena sent panicked texts that I didn’t need. I was already staring at the glossy printout with hands shaking so hard I could barely hold the thing.

“They’re going to eat me alive,” I whispered, voice barely audible over the sound of my world imploding.

The paper was ripped from my fingers before I could crumble it myself.

Zayden stood there, jaw taut enough to cut glass, eyes burning with the kind of fury that makes smart people very nervous.

He didn’t hesitate. Just tore the page straight down the center, then again, letting the pieces fall like confetti made from pure fucking venom.

“Let them choke on it,” he muttered, each word low and lethal enough to scare investment bankers.

I wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe that power could shield us from this media feeding frenzy. That anger would protect what love couldn’t.

But the world has sharper teeth than rage, and mine were about to get tested.

The next morning brought the call that made my stomach twist into origami.

Mia’s school—her safe place, her routine, her only escape from IVs and hospital walls—had revoked her enrollment.

“Too much attention,” the principal said with that practiced administrative condescension. “We’re concerned for the safety of the other students.”

Not a conversation. A verdict delivered with all the warmth of a tax audit.

I stood frozen in the hallway, phone still pressed to my ear, while the words sank into my brain like acid.

Zayden emerged from his study just in time to watch my face collapse into whatever expression you make when your six-year-old daughter becomes collateral damage in a rich people’s war.

I handed him the phone without speaking. Couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

He listened for maybe thirty seconds before cutting them off with surgical precision.

“No. We’re not leaving.”

His tone was calm. Deadly. Like something ancient and predatory had woken up behind those green eyes.

Then he turned to me, jaw tight enough to crack diamonds. “We’re going for a drive.”

We arrived at the school an hour later.

No press circus. No legal entourage. Just Zayden Wolfe in a steel-gray suit with shadows under his eyes and murder in his step.

The receptionist nearly jumped out of her skin the moment he entered.

“I’d like to speak with your head of administration,” he said with the kind of politeness that makes people start updating their résumés.

“Mr. Wolfe, I—”

“Now.”

The principal appeared within minutes—confident, composed, probably used to dismissing parental complaints with corporate doublespeak and fake sympathy.

Big fucking mistake.

“Mr. Wolfe, I understand this is difficult, but the circumstances have escalated beyond our ability to—”

“This institution accepted Mia Hartwell as a student with full knowledge of her medical needs,” Zayden interrupted with the precision of a scalpel. “You promised stability. Protection. Privacy.”

The principal swallowed hard. “We never anticipated the level of media attention would—”

“You should have.”

Zayden leaned forward slowly, resting both palms on the man’s polished desk like he was claiming territory.

“Do you know what I do when someone compromises my daughter’s safety?”

Silence. The kind that happens right before executions.

Zayden straightened, and I swear the temperature dropped ten degrees.

“I buy the threat. And I remove it.”

The principal blinked like he’d been slapped. “Excuse me?”

“You’re fired,” Zayden said with the casual indifference of someone ordering coffee. “The board will be notified today. I’m acquiring the school—land, licensing, assets, the works.”

“You can’t just—”

“I can,” Zayden replied, eyes like arctic glass. “And I will.”

We left without another word. Back in the car, I stared at him.

“I didn’t ask for this,” I said quietly.

“I know.”

He didn’t apologize. Didn’t need to.