Jocelyn's POV
Dr. Morrison's office smells like lavender and old books.
We're sitting on her couch—not across from her in patient chairs, but together, which somehow makes this feel less like an interrogation and more like a conversation between people who've agreed to stop pretending they have all the answers.
Zayden made the appointment. Called Dr. Morrison the morning after finding the doctor's note, while I was still in bed processing the shame of being caught hiding something I'd promised to share.
He didn't ask if I wanted to go. Just said "Thursday at two, both of us," and I understood it wasn't a request.
"So," Dr. Morrison says, settling into her chair with a notepad. "Zayden mentioned communication challenges around the pregnancy. Tell me what's been happening."
I glance at him. He nods. Your story to tell.
"I hid my diagnosis from him for five days," I say. "Pre-eclampsia risk. The doctor said I need modified bed rest, and I didn't tell him."
"Why not?"
The question is simple. The answer is an archaeological dig through thirty-four years of learning that need equals weakness.
"Because I was scared he'd make me stop working. Make me choose between taking care of myself and running the foundation." I twist my hands in my lap. "And I didn't want to choose."
"Did Zayden ask you to choose?"
"No. But I expected him to."
"What made you expect that?"
I look at Zayden again. He's watching me with that careful expression that means he's trying not to react—just listen. The way Landon probably coached him to.
"Because that's what everyone does," I say quietly. "When women get pregnant, suddenly their careers become negotiable. Their ambitions become selfish. Everything gets reframed around the baby, and the person they were before starts disappearing."
"And you didn't want to disappear."
"My mother had me at nineteen." The words come out before I've decided to say them. "She was going to college. Had plans—wanted to be a teacher. Then I came along and suddenly she was just 'mom.' No dreams, no identity. Just trapped."
"She told you that?"
"She didn't have to. I could see it in the way she looked at my report cards, like she was mourning something. The way she'd mention old friends who became things—lawyers, professors, successful." My throat tightens. "She loved me. But she also resented me for taking her life away."
Zayden reaches for my hand. I let him take it.
"I built the foundation from nothing," I continue. "It's proof that I'm more than just someone's wife or mother. That I matter beyond being useful to other people. And when the doctor said 'modified bed rest,' all I heard was your real life is over. Time to disappear into pregnancy."
The office is quiet for a moment. Dr. Morrison writes something down, then turns to Zayden.
"How do you see Jocelyn?"
He doesn't hesitate. "As the strongest person I know. Someone who survived her daughter's cancer, rebuilt my life when I'd destroyed it, created something that serves hundreds of families from nothing but stubbornness and brilliance."
He squeezes my hand. "I see her as someone who terrifies me sometimes because she's so capable it makes me feel unnecessary."
I blink. "What?"
"You don't need me, Joss. You never have. You chose me." He looks at Dr. Morrison. "When she got the diagnosis, my first instinct was to take over. Make decisions, control the situation, protect her. Because that's what I know how to do when I'm scared."
"But that's not what I need," I say.
"I know. That's why I'm here instead of just making a plan without you."
Dr. Morrison nods slowly.
"So you're both afraid of the same thing—that pregnancy will change your dynamic. Jocelyn's afraid she'll lose her identity. Zayden's afraid he'll become controlling.”
Dr. Morrison looks between us.
“And instead of sharing those fears, you've been acting them out. She hides the diagnosis to preserve autonomy. He hides donor calls to preserve her stability. Both of you protecting each other into isolation."
The summary is surgically accurate. I hate how obvious it sounds when someone else says it.
"What does modified bed rest actually look like?" Dr. Morrison pulls out a worksheet. "Practically. For two people running an organization during a crisis."
I glance at Zayden. We haven't discussed logistics—just emotions, apologies, the architecture of what went wrong without blueprinting what goes right.
"Maya can handle day-to-day operations," I say slowly. "She's been director of operations for two years. She knows the systems."
"But you want to stay involved."
"I need to stay involved. It's my organization."
"Then let's figure out how." She writes. "What absolutely requires your presence?"
"Strategic decisions," Zayden offers. "Major donor relationships. Board communications."
"All of which I can do remotely." I'm building the framework in my head now, the way I build grant proposals—practical, measurable, achievable. "Video calls, emails, phone conversations. Three days home, two days at the foundation, four-hour maximum."
"What about public events?" Dr. Morrison asks.
Silence. The gala. Press conferences. Documentary filming. All the things that require standing for hours and managing high-stress situations my body can no longer handle without risking seizure.
"I can cover those," Zayden says carefully. "The gala, media events. Anything that requires being physically present for extended periods."
I want to argue. Want to insist I can do it all—the way I've always done it, the way my identity demands.
"How does it feel to let Zayden handle public events?" Dr. Morrison asks.
"Like losing control."
"Or like delegating to a partner," Zayden counters gently. "I'm not taking over. I'm covering while you manage a medical situation. Every speech, every meeting—I make it clear that you built this, you're running it, and I'm just the guy keeping your chair warm."
Despite everything, I smile. "That's actually not terrible."
"I have my moments."
Dr. Morrison writes something final. "Modified bed rest: three days home, strategic decisions remain yours, Maya manages operations, Zayden handles public appearances. Workable?"
"Yeah." The word comes out lighter than I expected. "I think it is."
"And Jocelyn?" Dr. Morrison meets my eyes. "You're not disappearing. You're adapting. There's a significant difference."
The words settle something that's been rattling in my chest for weeks.
***
Two days later, I come home from a follow-up appointment to find our bedroom transformed.
A standing desk in the corner—adjustable height, large enough for my laptop and paperwork. An ergonomic chair with a pregnancy pillow. A small filing cabinet because Zayden knows I'm pathologically organized and would lose my mind without one.
But it's the wall above the desk that makes my throat close.
Framed photographs. Not of our wedding or Mia or family vacations—of the foundation. The ribbon cutting at our first location. Maria Rodriguez and her kids at the holiday party. The donor gala where we announced the Detroit expansion.
Me, in every single photo. Working, laughing, building something that matters.
"You built me an office," I say quietly.
Zayden appears in the doorway, looking uncertain in a way that's endearing on a man who used to run a billion-dollar empire. "If you hate it, I can move everything—"
I cross to him and kiss him hard. "I love it."
"Yeah?"
"You framed my work."
"Your work deserves to be framed." His arms wrap around me from behind, hands resting on my stomach where the baby is growing in a body we're both finally taking care of. "You're not disappearing, Joss. I won't let you."
I lean back against his chest, looking at the photos of the life I built. The standing desk is because sitting for hours isn't good for blood pressure.
The pillow is because my back hurts. The filing cabinet is because he knows me better than anyone and loves the parts that other people find exhausting.
"Modified bed rest doesn't mean isolated," he says into my hair. "It means working smarter. From here, where I can make sure you're eating and resting and not pushing yourself past the numbers Dr. Reeves circled in red."
"Romantic."
"Practical."
"Same thing with you."
I turn in his arms. "Thank you. For listening instead of fixing. For building me an office instead of a cage."
He kisses my forehead. "We're going to get through this."
"We are." And for the first time in weeks, I believe it completely. "Together."
"Always together."