POV Jocelyn

I sat beside Mia on the rooftop garden of this ridiculously expensive Swiss clinic, watching her demolish a chocolate bar that was basically the size of her entire head.

The alpine skyline stretched endlessly in front of us like something out of a tourism brochure, all snow-capped peaks and golden hour bullshit that should’ve felt peaceful but somehow made my chest tight with anxiety.

The air smelled like lavender and possibility, which was either romantic or nauseating depending on your tolerance for emotional metaphors.

Mia was bundled in a fuzzy sweater and her signature pink beanie, completely focused on the important things in life—namely, getting chocolate smeared across every available surface of her face.

Her feet swung happily off the bench while she hummed some song I didn’t recognize, probably something from that medical Disney movie she’d been obsessed with lately.

She was content. Healing. Safe.

I was a fucking mess.

Sitting there with my arms wrapped around my torso like I was physically holding myself together, staring at distant mountains while my brain spiraled through every possible way this could all go wrong.

Because that’s what I do—find the crack in paradise and obsess over it until it becomes a chasm.

It should’ve been simple by now, right? We’d survived Vivienne’s psychotic breakdown, Harrison’s manipulation, enough media drama to fuel a reality TV series.

We’d come through storms that would’ve broken most people into bite-sized pieces.

And still, I was terrified.

Not of Zayden—Christ, no. The man had literally bought a hospital to save our daughter. If that’s not love, it’s at least the most expensive gesture of affection in medical history.

No, I was scared of something much worse: the possibility of accepting love that didn’t come with conditions or exit strategies.

Love that was just… there. Steady. Reliable. Free.

My phone buzzed like an angry wasp. Video call from Helena, because apparently the universe had decided this was the perfect moment for an intervention.

“Alright,” Helena said the second I answered, not bothering with pleasantries. “Why the hell haven’t you said yes yet?”

I blinked at her pixelated face. “To what?”

Helena rolled her eyes hard enough to cause permanent damage.

“Don’t play stupid, Jocelyn. The man bought you a fucking hospital. You’re basically his wife in everything but paperwork.”

“It’s not about money,” I mumbled, which was both true and completely beside the point.

“Then what the hell is it about?”

I looked away from the screen, watching Mia lick chocolate off her fingers with the concentration of a surgeon.

“It’s about me. About how I never learned to accept love unless it came wrapped in danger. Unless I had to fight for it, earn it, prove I deserved it every single day.”

My voice cracked around the edges. “Zayden gives it freely now, and I don’t know what to do with that. I don’t have a roadmap for love that doesn’t require combat gear.”

Helena’s sarcasm vanished like smoke. Her tone went soft in that way that meant she was about to drop truth bombs.

“Then learn.”

Simple words. Devastating impact.

“Because that man?” she continued. “He’s not perfect. He’s difficult, stubborn, brooding like it’s an Olympic sport. But he’s trying. Really fucking trying. And Jocelyn… you love him. Even if you’re too scared to admit it when he’s in the same time zone.”

“I’ve said it,” I whispered. “In moments. In silence. In the way I look at him when he thinks I’m not paying attention.”

“Then say it when he is paying attention,” Helena said with the kind of gentle firmness that makes people cry in therapy sessions. “Say it when he’s listening. Because love that hides isn’t love—it’s fear wearing a disguise.”

The call ended with her trademark smile and wave.

I stared at the black screen for a long time, my reflection faint in the glass like a ghost of who I used to be.

“Mommy?” Mia mumbled, leaning against my shoulder with sticky fingers threading into my sleeve. “Are you okay?”

I nodded, brushing chocolate-scented curls away from her forehead. “Just thinking.”

“That’s what Daddy does when he misses you,” she said sleepily.

My breath caught somewhere between my lungs and my throat.

That night, after Mia had crashed hard in the clinic’s guest room, I walked the quiet hallways alone. My footsteps echoed faintly off sterile tile, moonlight pouring through tall windows like liquid silver.

I paused outside my suite door, key card trembling in my hand, before finally stepping inside.

The room was spotless. Quiet. Still as a held breath.

I walked to the bedside drawer and opened it with fingers that felt like they belonged to someone else.

There, nestled in velvet like a sleeping secret, was the ring.

The same fucking ring from that charity gala seven years ago.

The night he’d placed it in my palm like he was passing me a business card, all arrogance and charm, not knowing he was technically proposing to the mother of his unborn child.

Back then, it had felt like a lie. A beautiful, expensive lie for a girl I was pretending to be.

I’d kept it through everything. Countries, jobs, heartbreak, midnight flights to new cities. Not because I wanted the ring—Christ, no.

But because I wasn’t ready to let go of the version of myself who believed she wasn’t worthy of love that didn’t come with a price tag.

My fingers trembled as I picked it up.

The diamonds caught the light, so small compared to everything we’d survived together.

I remembered that night now with crystal clarity. The music, the crowd, the way he’d looked at me like I was the only person in a room full of Manhattan’s elite.

The way I’d smiled back even though I knew I’d be gone before sunrise.

I turned toward the fireplace where flames flickered low, casting dancing shadows against walls that had seen too many secrets.

This wasn’t about revenge or anger or even closure, really.

This was about choice.

I thought about the woman I used to be—afraid, defensive, always running toward the exit before anyone could ask me to stay.

And the woman I’d become—a mother, a survivor, someone who’d learned to love without begging for permission.

“Goodbye,” I whispered to the empty room, voice cracking around the edges.

I dropped the ring into the flames.

The diamonds hissed as metal curled, melted, dissolved into the past where it belonged. The physical reminder of a night that had changed everything, finally released from the burden of meaning more than it should.

I didn’t cry.

Just stood there until the fire went quiet and the ashes cooled.

I had loved him then—desperately, foolishly, with all the passion of a woman who thought love was something you stole in the dark.

But I chose him now—consciously, deliberately, with all the wisdom of a woman who’d learned that love was something you built in the light.

And I watched the past melt into gold.