Jocelyn’s POV
The phone explodes at six AM.
Not one call. Seventeen. Text messages flooding in faster than I can read them—Helena, my mother, numbers I don't recognize, reporters who somehow got my private line.
Then I see the headline.
WOLFE HEIR'S SECRET SON: Dying Mother Begs for Help While Billionaire Hides Behind New Family
Page Six, front page. Our lives dissected in tabloid font with photographs that make Natasha look like a saint and me like the villain who destroyed her happy ending.
There's Eli at the hospital, small and pale in a medical gown. Natasha beside him, hand pressed to his forehead, Madonna-and-child composition designed to break hearts.
And in the corner, a photo of me and Zayden from last month's foundation gala—designer dress, champagne glass, the picture of wealthy indifference.
"Shit." The word comes out flat, useless.
I scroll through the article with hands that won't stop shaking. Every sentence is a calculated strike.
‘Sources close to the family say Jocelyn Hartwell-Wolfe knew about Eli's existence but refused to allow contact, fearing it would threaten her position in the Wolfe dynasty…’
Lies. Strategic, devastating lies wrapped in anonymous sources and sympathetic framing.
The doorbell rings. Then again. And again.
I move to the window and look down at street level. Paparazzi swarm the entrance like locusts—cameras raised, voices shouting questions through reinforced glass.
"Mrs. Wolfe! Is it true you're blocking the transplant?"
"Jocelyn! How does it feel knowing a child might die?"
"Will you comment on the custody battle?"
My phone rings again—Helena this time. I answer on speaker while pulling Mia's curtains closed.
"Don't go outside," Helena says without greeting. "They're everywhere. I've got three photographers camped outside my building asking if you're hiding here."
"I haven't left the penthouse."
"Good. Keep it that way." Papers rustle in the background. "I'm looking at the article—it's a hit job. Professional-grade character assassination designed to make you look like a monster."
"It's working."
"Have you talked to Zayden?"
"Not since last night." The memory of those draft contracts burns through my chest. "Not planning to."
"Jocelyn, you need legal representation. Now. This isn't just tabloid drama—Natasha's building a case. Public opinion, sympathy vote, the whole war chest."
The doorbell rings again, harder this time, more insistent.
"I have to go."
"Don't answer the door!"
But I'm already moving down the hallway, checking the security screen. Not paparazzi—a woman in a blazer, clipboard in hand, official badge clipped to her belt.
I open the door six inches, chain still latched.
"Jocelyn Hartwell-Wolfe?" The woman's smile is professional, practiced. "I'm Sarah Chen with Child Protective Services. We received a complaint regarding the minor children in this household. I need to conduct a welfare check."
My stomach drops straight through the floor. "You can't be serious."
"May I come in?"
"Not without a warrant."
Her smile doesn't falter. "I can obtain one if necessary, but it would be easier for everyone if you cooperated voluntarily. We're just here to ensure the children are safe."
"My daughter is safe."
"I'm sure she is." Chen's eyes flick past me, cataloging the penthouse interior visible through the gap. "But given the allegations in the media, we have to follow protocol."
"What allegations?"
"That you're preventing a critically ill child from accessing life-saving treatment. That constitutes potential medical neglect of a minor in your husband's care." She glances at her clipboard. "We also need to verify Eli Reeves' living conditions."
"Eli doesn't live here."
"According to the custody petition, Mr. Wolfe has been granted temporary visitation rights pending the hearing. If he's exercising those rights at this residence, we need to verify the environment is suitable."
The words are a trap snapping shut.
Natasha didn't just go to the press. She weaponized CPS, turned the system itself into ammunition.
"I want to call my lawyer."
"That's your right." Chen pulls out a business card. "But the investigation is opening regardless. Cooperation makes things faster, resistance makes us look harder."
She leaves the card wedged in the doorframe and walks away, heels clicking against marble.
I'm still standing there when my phone buzzes with a news alert.
EXCLUSIVE: Natasha Reeves Speaks Out on Morning America
The video loads before I can stop it.
Natasha sits across from the interviewer, makeup subtle, clothing understated. She looks fragile, brave—a mother fighting impossible odds with quiet dignity.
"I don't want to vilify anyone," she's saying, voice steady despite the tears gathering in her eyes. "Jocelyn Hartwell is a mother too. She's protecting her daughter, I understand that impulse."
The interviewer leans forward. "But Eli is also Zayden's child."
"Yes." Natasha's composure cracks just enough. "And he's dying. I have six months left, and I'm spending them begging strangers to care about my son's life because his own father won't acknowledge him publicly."
"What do you want people to know?"
"That Eli exists. That he matters. That he's not a mistake or a scandal—he's a child who deserves to know his father before I'm gone." She looks directly at the camera. "And that a simple medical procedure could save him. But it requires his sister's help."
"Mia, Zayden's daughter with Jocelyn."
"Yes. She's the only compatible donor." Natasha's voice breaks. "I'm not asking Jocelyn to love Eli or raise him or even acknowledge him publicly. I'm just asking her to let Mia save her brother's life."
The interviewer's expression shifts to something like reverence. "That's an incredible burden to place on a mother."
"I know. But it's not a burden I can carry alone anymore."
The segment ends with a donation link, a GoFundMe for Eli's medical expenses despite the millions Zayden's paid over eight years.
Strategic brilliance. Natasha isn't just winning the PR war—she's creating a movement.
My phone explodes again. Social media notifications, news alerts, messages from people I haven't spoken to in years all asking the same question:
‘Why won't you help that dying child?’
The answer—because no one asked, because this is extortion, because my daughter's safety comes first—doesn't matter. Can't matter. Not when public opinion has already decided I'm the villain.
I sink onto the couch and watch through the window as more photographers arrive. News vans parking illegally, satellite dishes extending toward the sky like metal flowers blooming from concrete.
This is what Natasha promised—the scorched earth, the total destruction.
And she's just getting started.
My phone rings one more time. Unknown number. I almost don't answer.
"Mrs. Wolfe?" A man's voice, official and cold. "This is Detective Martinez with NYPD. We need you to come down to the precinct to answer some questions regarding allegations of child endangerment."
The walls close in.
"I want my lawyer present."
"That's your right. But we're opening a formal investigation. I'd suggest you make that call soon."
The line goes dead.