POV Jocelyn

The notary handed me the pen with the kind of quiet ceremony reserved for signing peace treaties or selling your soul.

I took it without flinching, because after everything I’d survived, a fucking pen wasn’t going to intimidate me.

The moment didn’t feel grand or cinematic—no orchestral swells or dramatic lighting. It felt steady. Earned.

Like the inevitable conclusion to a story I’d been writing in blood and stubbornness for years. Across the official form, just beneath the title that declared my authority over something I’d built from scratch, was the name I hadn’t dared write until now.

Jocelyn Wolfe.

The first stroke was bold. The second, deliberate.

The third locked it into place with the kind of finality that didn’t close a chapter—it declared war on everyone who’d ever said I wasn’t enough.

I straightened my shoulders as the ink dried, feeling something shift in my chest. Something that had been clenched tight for seven years finally uncurling.

The name didn’t bind me to anyone else’s legacy. It crowned me with my own.

It didn’t feel borrowed or inherited like some hand-me-down designer dress. It felt like something I’d bled for, fought for, earned through nights when I thought I might not survive until morning.

Not the echo of a man’s title, but the evolution of a woman who’d rebuilt herself from the ground up with nothing but determination and spite.

I rose from the chair and met the notary’s gaze. Her nod was respectful—no congratulations, no flowery bullshit. Just recognition between two women who understood what it meant to claim space in a world designed to deny it.

That was all I needed.

The opening ceremony was scheduled for the afternoon, because apparently even empowerment has to be media-friendly.

By the time we arrived, the sidewalk outside The Hartwell Initiative Center looked like a small-scale invasion—reporters lined the curb like vultures, city officials clustered at the entrance with their practiced smiles, name tags and program booklets scattered around like confetti from a political rally.

But this wasn’t about branding or some legacy project designed for tax write-offs and good press.

This was my battlefield, transformed into a shelter for women who’d fought the same war I had.

Zayden walked beside me toward the platform, his presence steady without being overwhelming. He didn’t push me forward or hold me back—just moved with me like we were partners in this dance instead of performer and audience.

No press release announced his role, because this wasn’t his show to steal.

When I stepped onto the stage, the noise died like someone had hit a mute button.

I adjusted the microphone with both hands, my tailored black suit sharp enough to cut glass, matching the focus in my eyes.

My heart hammered against my ribs like it was trying to escape, but my voice came out steady as a surgeon’s scalpel.

“Today, we open our doors,” I began, scanning faces in the crowd—some curious, some skeptical, some desperately hopeful. “But what we’re really doing is opening a future.”

Camera flashes started popping like tiny lightning strikes, but I didn’t look down.

“This center doesn’t exist because of corporate donations or tax incentives or some rich person’s guilt complex. It exists because a long time ago, I was told I didn’t belong anywhere. That I wasn’t strong enough to build something that lasted. That single mothers were burdens society had to tolerate, not treasures worth investing in.”

A murmur passed through the audience. One of the city councilwomen nodded, arms crossed, eyes suspiciously wet behind designer sunglasses.

“I’m here to reject all of that. Loudly. Publicly. Permanently.”

I let the silence stretch, watching it settle into people’s bones.

“Every woman who’s ever had to choose between safety and security… between keeping her child fed or keeping her dignity intact… between surviving and living… this building is for her.”

My eyes found a young mother in the crowd, baby clutched against her chest, hands shaking as she held the program booklet like it might contain the secret to salvation.

I saw myself in her face—terrified, desperate, trying to believe that help might actually exist.

“We are no longer asking for space,” I continued, voice getting stronger with each word. “We are taking it. With our stories. With our strength. With our absolute fucking right to heal and rise.”

Applause erupted—unruly and real, nothing like the polite golf claps at charity galas.

This came from the gut, from people who saw themselves in my words and finally felt permission to hope.

I stepped back as the ribbon-cutting ceremony began, watching officials pose for photos with their practiced smiles and campaign-ready soundbites.

But I kept my attention on the women in the crowd—the ones who didn’t clap because they were still deciding whether to believe me, still protecting themselves from disappointment.

I saw them. I remembered being them.

After the last handshake and staged photo op, Zayden found me at the edge of the courtyard. His jacket was open, tie loosened, looking more relaxed than I’d seen him since before Harrison’s stroke.

“You didn’t just build a center,” he said quietly, watching the dispersing crowd. “You built a storm shelter.”

My smile came slowly, tired, but absolutely genuine. “It had to be more than walls and good intentions.”

He stepped closer, hand warm against my waist, lips brushing my ear with words that hit like recognition.

“You’re a better Wolfe than any of us ever were.”

I stiffened slightly—not in discomfort, but in surprise that someone could say that name and mean it as a compliment instead of a burden.

He meant it. No sarcasm, no bitterness, no qualifier.

Just the truth. And maybe, finally, a little pride.

I turned to face him fully.

This man who once believed power had to be hoarded now stood beside the woman who’d learned to turn it into purpose. We were no longer fighting to survive each other—we’d survived everything else together.

“I’m both,” I said, voice steady as a heartbeat. “I’m Hartwell. I’m Wolfe. I’m a mother, a survivor… and a wife who finally stopped running.”