POV Jocelyn

Power wore satin tonight, and I felt like a fraud in borrowed jewelry.

The ballroom shimmered with the kind of wealth that makes normal people nauseous—chandeliers spilling light over people who smiled with perfect teeth and judged with surgical precision.

Every step I took echoed against marble that probably cost more than most people’s houses.

Zayden hadn’t planned to come to this circus.

He hated the Wolfe Foundation Gala—too many cameras, too many expectations, too much performative charity served with lobster and pretentious piano music.

He’d once said that charity becomes theater when you dress it up in ball gowns and tax deductions.

But plans shifted when Vivienne decided to turn my life into her personal revenge fantasy.

She’d gone after me like a woman scorned with unlimited legal resources. Leaked a twisted version of my old nonprofit work, claimed I’d funneled money, manipulated audits, lied about credentials.

Every single thing I’d ever done to survive—repackaged into crimes I didn’t fucking commit.

Donors pulled out faster than teenagers on prom night.

Board members questioned Zayden’s judgment with that special brand of concern that rich people perfect. Journalists called the penthouse hunting for statements like vultures circling roadkill.

I hadn’t cried through any of it.

Until he opened the closet and pulled out his tux.

“You don’t have to fix this,” I said, watching him button cufflinks that probably cost more than my car.

“I’m not fixing it,” he said, voice deadly calm. “I’m burning it down.”

And here we fucking were.

He entered the ballroom like he owned the building, the block, and possibly the entire financial district. Black tux sharp enough to cut glass, jaw set like he’d carved it from granite.

His presence bent the room toward him like gravity had shifted to his personal command.

Heads turned. Conversations died mid-syllable. Wine glasses paused halfway to lips.

I followed behind, spine rigid, throat desert-dry, feeling like I was walking through a minefield wearing tap shoes. Eyes tracked my every movement, dissecting my dress, my hair, my absolute audacity for existing in their sacred space.

I didn’t belong here. Never would. And they wanted me to know it.

But I belonged to Mia. And she belonged to him. So I kept my head high and my middle finger mentally extended.

Whispers slithered through the clink of champagne glasses like venomous snakes.

“That’s her?”

“Thought she was just the secretary.”

“She’s bolder than I expected.”

“Look at those shoes—definitely not designer.”

Sweat traced down my spine despite the air conditioning that probably cost more per month than my rent.

Then Zayden kept walking. Right past the perfectly arranged tables, past the open bar serving liquor older than democracy, straight onto the stage like he was claiming conquered territory.

The emcee sputtered some protest, but Zayden raised one hand and the man shut up immediately. Nobody stops a Wolfe when he looks like vengeance wrapped in Italian silk.

He took the microphone without asking permission.

The entire ballroom held its collective breath.

“Seven years ago,” he began, voice steady as a heartbeat, “I met someone who changed everything.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd like a stone dropped in still water. Forks paused mid-air. Wine glasses hovered forgotten.

“I didn’t know her name. Didn’t know her story. But I remembered her eyes.”

His gaze found mine across the sea of designer gowns and thousand-dollar suits.

“I never saw her again. Not until a few months ago.”

You could hear individual heartbeats in that silence.

“This woman,” he nodded toward me, “raised my daughter alone. Without help. Without support. While I lived in complete ignorance.”

Shock rippled through the crowd like electricity. Curiosity sharpened into something hungrier, more dangerous.

“She didn’t ask for anything. Not even when she needed it most.”

His voice cracked just slightly, and something in my chest cracked along with it.

“And I let people, people I called my family, drag her through the mud for sport.”

Real gasps this time. Someone’s champagne glass clinked too loudly.

Vivienne stood near the dance floor like a statue carved from rage and expensive perfume. Her champagne flute forgotten, face rigid with the kind of fury that makes rational people back away slowly.

“She was accused of theft,” Zayden continued, voice getting stronger. “Of manipulating charity systems. Of seducing her way into power.”

He paused, letting that sink in.

“She did none of it. The only thing she’s guilty of… is protecting a child we both made.”

Every eye in the room snapped to me like laser sights.

Some widened with surprise. Others narrowed with something uglier, hungrier.

“If integrity means anything to you,” he said, lifting his chin with the kind of pride that could power cities, “believe in her.”

Another pause that lasted approximately seventeen years.

“And if that’s too hard—leave.”

No grand finale. No orchestral swell. Just truth delivered like a surgical strike.

For a moment, the room remained frozen in amber.

Then came movement.

A man near the front stood and walked out, his wife trailing behind. Followed by a woman in fuchsia sequins who looked personally offended by the concept of unwed mothers. Then two major donors from Harrison’s inner circle.

Half the room emptied in pointed silence. But the ones who stayed? They clapped.

Not that polite golf-clap bullshit. Real applause that echoed off marble walls.

Vivienne turned white as her designer dress.

Her fingers tightened around her champagne flute until I thought it might shatter from pressure alone.

Zayden stepped off the stage like he was descending a throne, walking straight toward me with the confidence of a man who’d just declared war on his entire social circle.

He took my hand, holding it like armor against the world.

That broke her completely.

Vivienne shoved through the nearest circle of guests, nearly taking out a waiter carrying a tray of something that probably cost more than my monthly salary.

Her champagne glass slipped from trembling fingers and exploded against marble.

Someone gasped. Nobody moved.

She stood there, chest heaving, teeth clenched tight enough to crack molars—then spun on designer heels that clicked like gunshots across the ballroom floor.

Vivienne stormed out.