POV Jocelyn

The penthouse door was unlocked when I got back from Mia’s afternoon appointment.

First red flag. Zayden never leaves anything unlocked—the man treats security like a religion and paranoia like a spiritual practice.

I pushed it open with fingertips that suddenly felt like they belonged to someone else, heart hammering against my ribs hard enough to crack bone.

“Hello?” My voice echoed through the foyer like a gunshot in a cathedral.

Silence. The wrong kind. The kind that makes prey animals freeze and smart people run.

I should’ve run.

Instead, I stepped inside, and my world exploded into chaos.

The living room looked like a tornado had fucked a demolition crew.

Furniture overturned, cushions slashed open, stuffing scattered across marble floors like synthetic snow from hell. Picture frames smashed, glass glittering like deadly confetti.

But it was the mirror that made my blood turn to ice water.

Spray-painted across the surface in dripping red letters: “GOLD DOESN’T MAKE YOU WORTHY.”

The paint was still wet. Still fucking wet, which meant whoever did this was either long gone or hiding somewhere in this maze of expensive rooms, waiting for round two.

My knees nearly buckled. This wasn’t random vandalism or some rich people’s prank gone wrong. This was personal. Targeted.

A message written in the kind of hatred that doesn’t stop at property damage.

“Mia,” I whispered, moving faster now, panic clawing up my throat like acid.

I found her in her bedroom, sitting cross-legged on her bed with that tiger plush clutched against her chest, staring at walls that had been violated with the same red paint.

Words I won’t repeat, accusations that made my skin crawl, threats disguised as artistic expression.

“Mommy?” Her voice was small, confused, scared in a way that six-year-olds should never have to be. “Someone came in. They were angry.”

My heart stopped completely. “Did they hurt you? Did anyone touch you?”

She shook her head, but her eyes were wide with the kind of fear that leaves permanent marks. “They yelled. About you and Daddy. Bad words.”

I was moving before conscious thought kicked in, grabbing our emergency bag—the one I’d packed out of habit from years of midnight hospital runs and financial disasters.

Mia’s medications, change of clothes, her backup tiger plush for when the primary tiger needed washing.

“We’re going on an adventure,” I said, voice steadier than I felt. “Remember how we used to do that? Just us?”

“Is Daddy coming?”

“Daddy’s busy with important grown-up stuff,” I lied.

Because how do you explain to a sick child that someone hates her existence enough to break into her home and leave threats written in paint that looked like blood?

“Are we in trouble?” she asked as I helped her into her coat.

“No, baby. We’re just being extra careful.”

I carried her down to the garage, hands shaking so hard I could barely hit the elevator buttons. Every shadow looked like a threat. Every sound made me jump.

By the time we reached Helena’s apartment, I was running on pure adrenaline and maternal fury.

Helena took one look at my face and stepped aside without questions. Smart woman.

Three hours later, my phone exploded with Zayden’s call.

“Where the fuck are you?” His voice came through the speaker like a controlled explosion. “I came home to a crime scene and you’re gone.”

“We’re safe,” I said, not giving him Helena’s address yet. “But Zayden, someone broke in. They—”

“I know. I saw.”

Something in his voice made my spine straighten. Cold, lethal calm that suggested someone was about to have a very bad day.

“Where are you going?” I asked, because I knew that tone.

“To end this.”

The line went dead.

Later, Helena and I sat on her couch watching the news while Mia napped, and I pieced together what happened next. From a combination of security footage that somehow leaked to every major outlet and Helena’s ability to find gossip faster than Google.

Zayden had stormed into the Ritz-Carlton like vengeance in Italian wool, bypassing hotel security with the kind of authority that money and rage provide.

Took the elevator straight to the penthouse suite where Vivienne had been hiding since the charity gala disaster.

She’d answered the door in silk pajamas and a face mask, probably expecting room service or another bottle of wine to drown her sorrows.

Instead, she got six feet of barely controlled fury.

“You crossed a line,” he said, pushing past her into the suite like he owned the building. Which, knowing Zayden’s investment portfolio, he probably did.

Vivienne tried to play innocent, because apparently being caught red-handed doesn’t stop sociopaths from lying. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“My home was vandalized. My daughter was terrorized. My family was threatened.” Each word came out like a bullet. “And you think I’m stupid enough to believe it was random?”

She crossed her arms, trying to look bored instead of terrified. “You can’t prove anything.”

That’s when Zayden pulled out his phone and slid a USB drive onto her marble coffee table like he was playing the winning card in a poker game worth millions.

“Security footage says otherwise.”

The blood drained from her face so fast I’m surprised she didn’t pass out. “That’s impossible.”

“Building security, street cameras, your own hotel’s surveillance. Three different angles of you entering the garage. Timestamp matches perfectly.” His voice was getting colder, more controlled. “You were sloppy, Vivienne. Sloppy and stupid.”

She went from pale to gray to something approaching green. “Those cameras don’t—”

“Record? Actually, they do. Amazing what happens when you own enough stock in security companies.”

He stepped closer, and I could practically feel the temperature drop through the television screen.

“Every moment. Every paint stroke. Every second you spent terrorizing a child.”

Vivienne’s composure finally cracked completely. “You can’t do this to me! My family—”

“Your family disowned you six months ago when you maxed out their trust fund on legal fees and cocaine,” Zayden said with the casual cruelty of someone who’d done his homework. “You have nothing left except spite and bad decisions.”

“I’ll destroy you,” she spat, voice rising to that pitch that makes dogs howl and witnesses uncomfortable. “I’ll tell everyone about your precious little family. I’ll drag their names through every tabloid, every—”

“You already tried.” He moved toward the door like the conversation was over. “Now it’s my turn.”

The door slammed behind him with the finality of a coffin lid.

Within an hour, Vivienne was being escorted out of the hotel in handcuffs, photographers capturing every moment of her very public downfall.

Breaking and entering, vandalism, stalking, harassment—the charges piled up like Christmas presents from a very vengeful Santa.

When Zayden called me back, his voice sounded different. Lighter. Like he’d finally set down a weight he’d been carrying for years.

“Is Mia okay?” he asked first.

“Shaken but safe. She’s asking about you.”

“I’m coming to get you both.”

“What about Vivienne?”

I could hear him smile through the phone. “Vivienne’s going to be very busy with her legal team for the foreseeable future.”

“And Harrison?”

Long pause. “Still dying. Still alone. Still exactly what he chose to be.”

When he picked us up an hour later, Mia ran to him like he was home itself.

Watching him scoop her up, seeing her small arms wrap around his neck, something in my chest finally unclenched.

“Did you catch the bad lady?” Mia asked seriously.

“The police caught her,” Zayden said. “She won’t bother us anymore.”

“Good,” Mia declared with the fierce satisfaction of a child who’s seen justice served. “She was mean to Mommy.”

Later, after Mia was asleep between us on Helena’s couch, I found Zayden on the balcony, phone pressed to his ear.

“Press charges,” he was saying, voice carrying that lethal calm that made smart people very nervous. “I want her gone.”