POV Jocelyn

My phone buzzes at exactly 2:14 PM, slicing through my day like a guillotine.

Dr. Everett Reeds. Mia’s oncologist.

The name alone makes my blood crystallize. Doctors don’t call during business hours unless someone’s dying.

“Ms. Hartwell? I need you here immediately. Mia’s blood work shows complications.”

The office tilts sideways. My vision goes spotty.

“What complications?” Voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater.

“White cell count dropped significantly. We need emergency intervention protocols. Four o’clock today.”

Emergency intervention. The words bounce around my skull like ricocheting bullets.

Four o’clock. Right when Zayden’s hosting his international investor circle-jerk. The Yamamoto presentation he’s been obsessing over like it’s the cure for cancer.

Which my daughter actually needs.

“I’ll be there.”

I hang up and stand outside his office for five eternal minutes, watching him through glass walls. He’s reviewing slides with the intensity of someone defusing bombs, completely absorbed in profit margins and market domination.

Even with my world imploding, some traitorous part of my brain notices how his jaw tenses when he’s concentrating. How he runs fingers through hair when numbers don’t cooperate.

I’m officially the worst person alive.

I knock with knuckles that belong to someone braver.

“Enter.” Voice cuts through desperation like arctic wind.

“Mr. Wolfe, I need early dismissal. Family emergency—”

“No.”

Doesn’t even look up. Just drops that word like a concrete tombstone.

“I’m sorry?”

“Yamamoto presentation. Two hours. Documents need cross-referencing, projections updating, packets assembling. Forty-seven million dollars, Ms. Hartwell. Non-negotiable.”

My hands clench into fists that could damage expensive objects. “Sir, this is urgent. My daughter’s doctor—”

“Ms. Hartwell.”

Finally looks at me with eyes colder than absolute zero.

“Let me clarify. I don’t pay you for personal problems. Family emergencies are distractions that destroy careers. Your job comes first, personal complications second, or you don’t have a job.”

Each word hits like calculated violence, demolishing every stupid moment I thought I detected humanity beneath corporate armor.

“My six-year-old daughter is fighting cancer. This isn’t convenience—it’s survival.”

“Precisely the distraction I mentioned.” Voice carries lethal calm that makes intelligent people evacuate. “You chose this position. Professional obligations supersede personal complications. Elementary mathematics.”

Something inside me detonates.

Every moment I thought carried meaning—rolled sleeves, almost-smiles, the way he pronounced my name—were just desperate projections onto a beautiful, expensive android.

“You know what?” Voice shakes with nuclear fury. “Fuck this.”

His eyebrows rocket upward like I’ve announced alien pregnancy.

“I will not abandon my dying daughter because some overpaid sociopath can’t manage basic meetings without unpaid emotional support. Want someone without personal problems? Hire a robot.”

I’m backing toward escape, professional facade crumbling like wet cardboard.

“I’m exceptional at this job, and any company run by actual humans would be lucky to have me. Figure out your own presentation, you heartless bastard.”

Momentum carries me toward the door, rage flooding out like broken dam water.

“Some things matter more than profit margins. Maybe someday you’ll pull your head out of your ass long enough to remember what humanity feels like instead of whatever soulless corporate monster you’ve become.”

I grab my purse, Patricia’s shocked expression barely registering through tunnel vision.

The elevator doors close on Zayden standing motionless in his doorway, staring with an expression I’ve never witnessed before.

For the first time since I started working for him, Zayden Wolfe is completely speechless.

Perfect. Let him process that while I save my daughter’s life.

* * *

The hospital at 6 AM smells like disinfectant and broken dreams.

I’m curled in the world’s most uncomfortable chair, watching Mia sleep in a tangle of IV lines and that hospital gown. Her breathing is steady now—thank Christ—after twelve hours of medical drama that aged me approximately seven years.

Dr. Reeds had used words like “stabilized” and “responding well” around 2 AM, which in medical speak translates to “your daughter isn’t dying today.”

Not exactly a victory parade, but I’ll take it.

My phone has been buzzing intermittently since yesterday afternoon—missed calls from work, probably Patricia wondering where the hell I am.

Maybe even Zayden realizing his precious presentation went to shit without his unpaid servant there to hold his hand through basic corporate functions.

I don’t give a single fuck about any of it.

I’m contemplating whether the vending machine coffee will actually kill me when Nurse Jennifer approaches with that careful smile.

“Ms. Hartwell? Someone left this for you at the front desk.”

She hands me a cream-colored envelope. My name is written across the front in handwriting I don’t recognize.

“When?” I ask, turning the envelope over like it might explode.

“About an hour ago. Very handsome gentleman. Insisted we give it to you personally.”

I frown, brain cycling through possibilities. Helena’s boyfriend doesn’t qualify as handsome by any reasonable standard. My landlord is approximately seventy and looks like a troll.

The only other men in my life are doctors, and they’re all married, exhausted, or both.

“Did he say what it was about?”

Jennifer’s professional smile turns into something more personal, conspiratorial. “Well, I shouldn’t gossip, but…”

She leans closer, lowering her voice like she’s sharing state secrets.

“Lisa at reception thinks he might be Mia’s father. The way he asked about her, seemed so concerned.”

My stomach does something acrobatic and uncomfortable. “What did he look like?”

“Tall, dark hair, green eyes that could melt steel. Expensive suit, but not in that slimy businessman way. More like…” She fans herself dramatically. “Like he stepped out of a magazine about powerful men who secretly read poetry.”

“Oh God,” breathes Rebecca from the pediatric ICU, joining our impromptu gossip session. “You didn’t see him? I nearly dropped a tray of medications when he walked past. That jawline could cut glass.”

“And the voice,” adds Sandra from radiology. “Deep, rough around the edges. Like whiskey and cigarettes, but in a good way.”

I’m staring at them like they’re describing a mythical creature instead of some random guy who left me mysterious correspondence.

“He kept asking about visiting hours,” Jennifer continues, warming to her subject. “Wanted to know about Mia’s condition, treatment schedule. Very thorough questions. Definitely father material.”

“Father material?” I echo weakly.

“Honey, the way he looked when he mentioned her name?” Rebecca clutches her chest dramatically. “That’s a man in love. With both of you, I’d bet money on it.”

They’re all nodding like they’ve solved some cosmic mystery, while I’m standing here holding an envelope that feels heavier than it should.

“Did he… did he say anything else?”

“Just that it was important you get it,” Jennifer says. “And that he hoped Mia felt better soon. Very sweet. Very concerned. Definitely keeper material.”

“I need to…” I gesture vaguely toward Mia’s room. “Process this.”

I escape to Mia’s room, closing the door against their romantic speculation and my growing dread.

I sit in the chair that’s molded to my ass after countless overnight vigils and stare at the envelope like it might contain anthrax.

Expensive paper. Careful handwriting. Left by a man whose description sounds suspiciously like…

No. That’s impossible.

Zayden Wolfe doesn’t do hospital visits. Doesn’t do mysterious envelopes. Doesn’t give a damn about anything that doesn’t directly impact his quarterly profits.

I tear open the envelope with trembling fingers.

A check falls into my lap.

Five thousand dollars. Made out to Jocelyn Hartwell. Signed in that same careful handwriting.

And at the bottom, in the memo line: For Mia.

The signature stops my heart completely.

Z. Wolfe.

“What the actual fuck,” I whisper, staring at the check like it might transform into something that makes sense.

I stare at the check until the numbers blur, trying to process this psychological whiplash.

Yesterday he was a heartless monster who valued spreadsheets over sick children. Today he’s leaving anonymous donations like some kind of corporate fairy godfather.

Which version is real? The ice-cold CEO who crushes employees under his designer heel, or the man who quietly shows up at hospitals when nobody’s watching?