Zayden’s POV
The hospice in Brooklyn smells like an industrial cleaning solution failing to mask death.
Jocelyn walks three steps ahead of me down corridors painted in colors meant to soothe but only manage to depress. Her spine is rigid, jaw set. She agreed to this visit with the enthusiasm of someone scheduling a root canal.
"Room 217," the nurse says. Points down the hall, doesn't meet our eyes.
Everyone here knows who we are. The tabloids made sure of that.
Natasha's room overlooks a parking lot. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Machines beep in steady rhythm—counting down, measuring decline, marking time she doesn't have.
She looks smaller than when I last saw her. The cancer is eating her from the inside out, leaving behind something that barely resembles the woman I knew nine years ago.
Her eyes open when we enter. Focus on Jocelyn first, then me.
"You came." Her voice is paper-thin. "Wasn't sure you would."
"Eli asked me to check on you." Jocelyn stays near the door, arms crossed. Not hostile, but not warm either. "Said you haven't been answering his calls."
"Phone died. Nurse hasn't brought a new charger." Natasha's hand trembles reaching for water. Jocelyn moves forward instinctively, helps her drink. The gesture surprises all of us.
"Thank you," Natasha whispers.
Jocelyn steps back quickly. "How long do they say?"
"Maybe a week if I'm stubborn." A ghost of a smile. "I always was stubborn."
"Eli needs to see you." Not a request—a command. "He's terrified you'll die while he's not here."
"Tomorrow. Tell him tomorrow." Natasha's gaze shifts to me. "Zayden. There's paperwork. On the table."
I cross to the small desk, find legal documents, signatures already in place.
‘Withdrawal of Custody Petition: Minor Child Mia Rose Hartwell-Wolfe’
"You're dropping it," I say.
"Effective immediately." Natasha's breathing is labored, each word costs her. "My lawyer filed this morning. It's done."
Jocelyn moves closer. "Why?"
"Because I was wrong." Simple statement, no theatrics. "I wanted you to feel what I felt. Wanted to destroy what you built because I couldn't build anything myself."
She coughs, wet and rattling. "But Eli loves Mia, talks about her constantly. And you…" Her eyes find Jocelyn. "You've been kind to him when you didn't have to be."
"He's a child." Jocelyn's voice is steady. "What happened between you and Zayden isn't his fault."
"Most women wouldn't see it that way."
"Most women aren't raising a child alone because some man decided fatherhood was negotiable."
The words land between us like grenades. Natasha's laugh is bitter, breaking at the edges.
"I hated you for three years before I met you," she says. "Built entire stories about who you were. Gold-digger. Home-wrecker. Woman who stole my second chance." She pauses, struggling for air. "Then I saw you with Mia at that school. The way you held her—fierce, protective, like nothing in the world mattered more."
Jocelyn says nothing, just listens.
"That's when I knew." Natasha's eyes drift closed. "You didn't steal anything. Zayden gave you what he never gave me—choice. Presence. He gave you himself."
"He gave me lies," Jocelyn corrects. Quiet, sharp.
"He gave you evolution." Natasha's eyes open again. "The Zayden I knew wouldn't have fought for anyone. Wouldn't have sacrificed his empire for a child. You changed him."
"Or he finally grew up."
"Maybe both."
Silence stretches, machines beep. Somewhere down the hall, someone cries.
Jocelyn pulls a chair close to the bed, sits. The action surprises me more than anything that's happened in the last week.
"What do you need?" Jocelyn asks. "For Eli. After… You know."
Natasha's composure cracks. Tears slide down temples into hair that's too thin, too brittle. "I need him to know I tried. That I loved him enough to give him a father even when that father didn't deserve him."
"He knows."
"I need him to forgive me for leaving."
"He will. Eventually." Jocelyn reaches out, hesitates, then takes Natasha's hand. "Kids are better at forgiveness than adults."
The gesture breaks something in Natasha's face. She grips Jocelyn's fingers like a lifeline.
"I'm sorry," Natasha whispers. "For the custody petition, for the media circus. For making Eli a weapon in a war that wasn't his to fight."
"I know."
"I wanted to hurt you. Both of you. Make you feel as powerless as I felt."
"You succeeded." No anger in Jocelyn's voice, just a fact.
Natasha's eyes close. "The other women will probably come forward. Now that the story's public."
My spine locks. Every muscle goes rigid.
I know what's coming before she finishes the sentence, can feel it bearing down like a freight train I stepped in front of years ago, and now there's nowhere left to run.
"What other women?" Jocelyn's hand goes still in Natasha's grip.
"The ones he paid off." Natasha's voice is fading, consciousness slipping. "Before me. After me. All the inconvenient pregnancies that threatened the Wolfe reputation."
My blood turns to ice water. "Natasha—"
"He has a type." She's barely conscious now, morphine dragging her under. "Smart women, independent. The kind who won't cause trouble if you pay them enough." Her grip loosens on Jocelyn's hand. "Ask him. About Rebecca, about Sofia, about—"
"That's enough." I move toward the bed. But Jocelyn is already standing. Already turning toward me with an expression that could strip paint.
"How many?" Her voice is surgical. Precise. "How many women did you pay to disappear?"
"Jocelyn, I…"
"Don't." She steps closer. "Don't lie again, don't deflect, don't tell me it's complicated." Each word is a knife thrown with accuracy. "How many women? How many children? How many times did you write checks instead of showing up?"
The machines beep. Natasha's breathing evens out into something close to sleep. The nurse will be here soon to ask us to leave.
But Jocelyn stands between me and the door, arms crossed, waiting for an answer that will either end us or save us.
"How many, Zayden?"
And I have no idea which truth accomplishes which outcome.