Jocelyn's POV
Two weeks of complete bed rest has taught me patience I didn't know I possessed.
138/85 this morning. Down from 152/98 fourteen days ago. Still elevated, still requiring medication, but Dr. Reeves used the word "encouraging" at yesterday's appointment. Encouraging—the medical equivalent of you're not dying as fast as we feared.
I'll take it.
The world outside this bedroom has shifted while I've been counting ceiling fan rotations and naming water stains. Vivienne's retraction hit like a bomb—every outlet that covered her allegations ran her recantation.
The defamation lawsuit made the front page of three major publications. CelebGossip retracted every article, fired Trevor as consulting editor, and issued a public apology that Landon called "legally motivated but functionally useful."
Aiden showed up at the foundation two days ago. Zayden showed me the security footage—his half-brother, thinner than before, suit wrinkled, trying to approach volunteers about a "counter-documentary."
Sarah from intake told him his lies about my pregnancy didn't earn him five minutes or five seconds. Security escorted him out while he delivered a monologue about exposing corruption that nobody was listening to.
The restraining order was served the same afternoon.
Donors are calling. Not all of them—some damage doesn't reverse with a single retraction—but enough. Gerald Torres quietly resumed his quarterly contribution without apology. Two smaller funders reinstated with notes about "unfortunate misunderstanding."
The Morrison Trust hasn't called, but Patricia Chen mentioned they're "re-evaluating" their pause.
The hemorrhaging has slowed. The foundation's heart is still beating.
And in four days, the gala.
"Absolutely not," Zayden says when I bring it up.
"I didn't ask for permission. I asked if you'd drive me."
"Same answer—no."
He's standing in the bedroom doorway holding a tray of food he prepared—grilled chicken, roasted vegetables, the kind of nutritionally optimized meal that tastes like a doctor's recommendation instead of a dinner.
"Your blood pressure is stable for the first time in a month. You want to risk that by standing in a ballroom for four hours?"
"I want to be present for the most important fundraising event our foundation has ever held." I push myself upright against the headboard. "This gala was supposed to prove we survived. If I'm not there, it proves the opposite."
"Maya can represent leadership. I'll give the keynote…"
"Zayden." I wait until he sets the tray down and looks at me. "This is my foundation. I built it. I bled for it—literally, my blood pressure proves that.”
My husband opens a mouth to argue, but I continue:
“If I'm not standing in that room when we tell the world we survived a coordinated attack from your own family, then Aiden still wins. Not legally. Not publicly. But here." I press my hand against my chest. "Where it matters."
He sits on the edge of the bed. Runs both hands through his hair in the gesture that means he's calculating between what he wants to say and what he knows is true.
"Dr. Reeves would have to clear you."
"Then I'll ask her."
"And if she says no?"
"Then I stay home and watch via livestream and hate every second of it." I take his hand. "But I think she'll say yes. Two weeks of stable readings. Medication working. Baby's heart rate perfect. She said 'encouraging,' Zay. That's practically permission in doctor-speak."
"That's practically 'we're cautiously optimistic,' which is very different from 'go stand in heels for four hours while cameras film you.'"
"I'll sit between speeches. No heels—flats. Four hours maximum. You escort me out the second my watch shows elevated heart rate."
He's quiet. Calculating.
"I'll call her tomorrow," he says finally. "But if she says limited activity, you follow the limits. Not your interpretation of limits—her actual words."
"Deal."
"And you don't push through symptoms to look strong for cameras."
"Deal."
"And if I say we're leaving, we leave. No negotiating, no five-more-minutes, no just-let-me-finish-this-conversation."
"Deal." I squeeze his hand. "I promise. The baby comes first. Always."
He studies my face for a long moment—looking for the lie, for the performative agreement that masks a plan to do whatever I want anyway. But he doesn't find it, because it isn't there. I mean it. The terrifying clarity of 152/98 stripped away every delusion I had about being invincible.
"Okay," he says. "I'll call Dr. Reeves in the morning."
***
Zayden announces I'm allowed in the living room for exactly one hour under strict supervision.
The room has been transformed. Candles everywhere—real ones, not the sad LED kind. Our small dining table moved closer to the couch, set with actual dishes instead of the paper plates we've been surviving on. Flowers. Music.
"You made us a date night," I say, throat tight.
"You've been staring at a ceiling fan for two weeks. Figured you could use different scenery." He helps me settle on the couch, arranging pillows with the focused efficiency of a man who's become expert at supporting a pregnant body. "Plus, I wanted to remind you why you married me."
"I married you because you're annoyingly persistent."
"Exactly. And tonight I'm persistently romantic."
Dinner is pasta carbonara—the good bread from the bakery three blocks away, the Caesar salad I've been craving. He sits on the floor beside the couch so we're eye level, and when my arms get tired from holding the fork, he feeds me bites without making it feel like anything other than intimacy.
After dinner, he extends his hand. "Dance with me."
"Zay, I'm on bed rest."
"Couch rest. And I checked with Dr. Reeves. Five minutes of gentle swaying while supported is medically permissible." He pulls me carefully upright. "I haven't held you properly in two weeks. I'm going through withdrawal."
I wrap my arms around his neck. His hands settle where my waist used to be before pregnancy expanded everything.
We sway in our candlelit living room, my belly between us, his humming occasionally interrupted by whispered conversations about nothing important—baby names, which wall color works for the nursery, whether Mia will be jealous or thrilled about sharing attention.
Normal things. Beautiful things. The kind of conversations that got buried under legal filings and blood pressure readings and crisis management.
"The gala's in four days," I say into his shoulder.
"I know."
"If Dr. Reeves clears me…"
"Then you'll be there. And I'll be beside you." He pulls back to look at me. "We started this foundation together. We'll stand in that ballroom together."
"Even if my speech is terrible?"
"Your speeches are never terrible."
"Even if I cry?"
"Especially if you cry. Tears in a ballroom full of donors are called 'authentic vulnerability' and they're worth six figures in renewed commitments."
I laugh. Actually laugh, the kind that comes from somewhere deep and unguarded.
"Blood pressure check," he says, guiding me back to the couch.
The cuff tightens. Numbers appear.
134/82.
The best reading since before any of this started.
"Look at that," I whisper.
He looks. Then looks at me—barefoot, pregnant, candlelit, alive. And smiles with the kind of unguarded relief that tells me he's been carrying fear he never let me see.
"Romance is medically beneficial," he says. "I should tell Dr. Reeves."
"Please don't tell my doctor that you think dancing is therapeutic."
"The numbers don't lie, Joss."
He tucks me back into bed eventually. Blows out every candle. Climbs in beside me, warm and solid and here.
"Four days," I say into the darkness.
"Four days."
"We're going to walk into that ballroom and show every donor, every board member, every person who doubted us—"
"That we're still standing." He finishes my sentence. "Together."
"Together."
The baby kicks between us—strong, insistent, opinionated already. A tiny person who survived cortisol baths and blood pressure crises and a mother who almost broke trying to protect everything at once.
Four days until the gala. Four days until we stand in a room full of people and tell the truth—not through documentation or legal filings or timeline spreadsheets, but through the simple fact of being present. Alive. Together.