Jocelyn’s POV
The video drops at 9 AM while I'm in a budget meeting with Maya.
My phone lights up with notifications—text from Landon, then another from Rachel Brennan, then three from people I haven't heard from in months. All with the same link.
"What's happening?" Maya asks, looking at her own buzzing phone.
I click the link. It's Vivienne Ashford's Instagram—a perfectly lit video of her in what looks like an expensive therapist's office, speaking directly to camera.
"I've spent the last three years in trauma recovery," she says, voice soft and carefully vulnerable. "Learning the language of emotional abuse. Understanding gaslighting, love-bombing, financial control. Recognizing the patterns I couldn't see when I was in it."
She's wearing minimal makeup, dressed in cream cashmere. Everything about the aesthetic screams "authentic healing journey."
"My therapist calls it 'strategic kindness,'" Vivienne continues. "When someone uses generosity as a tool for control. Buys you beautiful things but makes you feel guilty for wanting autonomy. Supports your dreams only when they align with his narrative."
The comments are already flooding in. Supportive, outraged, sharing their own stories of "strategic kindness."
"Fuck," Maya breathes. "She's weaponizing therapy language."
"She's smart," I say, throat tight. "Can't prove any of it, can't sue for defamation because she's not using names. Just implications."
My phone rings. Landon.
"You saw it," he says without greeting.
"Just watched."
"It's gone viral. Half a million views in thirty minutes. Fashion bloggers are calling her brave. Some feminist accounts are using it as a teaching moment about recognizing financial abuse."
"What do we do?"
"Nothing. Yet. Let me talk to our lawyers about options." He pauses. "How's Zayden handling it?"
"Haven't told him. He's in meetings until lunch."
"Tell him gently. This one's going to sting."
After we hang up, I try to focus on budget spreadsheets but the numbers blur. I keep seeing Vivienne's carefully composed face, her practiced vulnerability, the way she's turned their failed relationship into a brand-building opportunity.
"I need air," I tell Maya. "Fifteen minutes."
I head downstairs to the foundation's main floor—the intake area where families first arrive. Usually it grounds me, reminds me why we do this work.
Today it's empty except for one man standing by the resource wall, reading our posted information about medical advocacy services.
He turns when I enter, and my breath catches.
The resemblance to Zayden is unmistakable. Same height, same build, same green eyes.
But where Zayden's features are sharp and controlled, this man's face is softer, easier. A smile that looks practiced rather than earned.
"You must be Jocelyn," he says, extending his hand. "Aiden Wolfe. Zayden's brother."
Half-brother, I want to correct, but don't. "He didn't mention you were visiting."
"He doesn't know." Aiden's smile widens. "I wanted to see the famous foundation first. Impressive operation you've built here."
Everything about this feels wrong. The timing, the unannounced visit, the way he's looking at me like he knows something I don't.
"We're not really set up for walk-in tours," I say carefully. "But I can have Maya schedule something…"
"Actually, I came to see you specifically." He moves closer, and I resist the urge to step back. "I've been following the foundation's work. Particularly the Medical Family Support Initiative. Fascinating timing for that launch."
"We've been planning it for months."
"Right. Months." His eyes drop briefly to my stomach—so quick I almost miss it. "Must be exhausting, all this expansion work. Especially with everything else you're managing."
The implication lands like ice water down my spine.
"I'm sorry, what are you suggesting?"
"Just that you look tired, run down."
He pulls a small bottle from his jacket pocket.
"My girlfriend's a naturopath. These helped her tremendously with nausea during her first trimester. All natural—ginger root, vitamin B6, peppermint. Much gentler than prescription anti-emetics."
The world narrows to that bottle in his hand.
He knows. He knows I'm pregnant.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I manage, but my voice wavers.
"Of course not." Aiden sets the bottle on the intake desk. "Just thought I'd leave these here. In case you or anyone on staff needs them. Nausea can be brutal, especially in early pregnancy. Around five, six weeks? That's usually when it peaks."
My hands are shaking. I clasp them behind my back.
"How did you—"
"I pay attention." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Medical scheduling systems aren't as secure as people think. Especially when you're looking for specific appointment types. Prenatal intake, for example."
The violation of it steals my breath. He's been in my medical records. Knows things I haven't even told my husband.
"That's illegal," I say, voice low and dangerous.
"Is it? Or is it just careful research about my brother's wife?" He tilts his head, studying me. "Congratulations, by the way. Zayden must be thrilled. You have told him, right?"
The threat is implicit but clear: I know your secret. I could tell him myself.
"Why are you here?" I ask.
"Reconnecting with family." He glances around the foundation space. "This place was built with Wolfe money, after all. Harrison's money. Money that should have been split between his sons."
"Zayden walked away from that empire."
"Easy to walk away when you've already taken everything." Aiden's pleasant mask slips slightly. "But I'm not here to fight old battles. I'm here to extend an olive branch. We're going to be family soon—aunt, uncle to your new baby. Might as well get along."
The way he says "your new baby" makes my skin crawl.
"I think you should leave," I say.
"Of course." He heads for the door, then pauses. "Those supplements really do help, though. Ginger's been used for centuries to treat morning sickness. Perfectly safe. Unless you'd rather keep suffering in silence while you figure out how to tell Zayden you're growing his child."
The door closes behind him, and I'm left standing in the intake area, staring at the bottle he left like a calling card.
My phone buzzes. Text from Zayden: ‘Lunch at twenty? Want to try that new ramen place.’
I look at the supplements. At my phone. At the foundation walls that suddenly feel less safe than they did an hour ago.
Aiden knows I'm pregnant. Has access to my medical information. Showed up unannounced to make sure I understand exactly how vulnerable I am.
And I still haven't told my husband.
I grab the bottle, shove it in my purse. Evidence or threat, I'm not sure which.
But I know one thing with absolute certainty: Aiden Wolfe isn't here to reconnect. He's here to destroy. And he's already figured out exactly where to aim.