Zyden’s POV
I'm pregnant—Jocelyn words keep looping in my head while I'm supposed to be reading quarterly reports. Jocelyn told me yesterday, and I still can't fully process it.
We're having our second baby, a family we're building intentionally, not through Harrison's manipulation or accidental one-night stands that took seven years to resolve.
My phone buzzes. Text from Landon: Need you to see this. Now.
I click the link. It's another video from Vivienne, this one posted twenty minutes ago. Already at two hundred thousand views.
She's in the same expensive therapist's office setting, but this time she's not alone. There's a woman beside her—Dr. Sarah Chen, according to the caption. Licensed trauma therapist.
"Emotional abuse isn't always obvious," Vivienne says, voice trembling with practiced vulnerability. "Sometimes it's the small things. Being belittled in front of colleagues, having your opinions dismissed, being told you're too sensitive, too emotional, too much."
Dr. Chen nods sympathetically. "Can you give us an example?"
"There was a business dinner. I suggested an investment opportunity I'd researched. My partner…" She pauses, as if the memory pains her. "He laughed, actually laughed, in front of everyone. Then said, 'Let's leave the business decisions to people who understand them, shall we?'"
I close my eyes. The dinner happened. I remember it. But what actually occurred was Vivienne suggesting we invest in a cryptocurrency scheme that was obviously fraudulent, and I said—diplomatically, I thought—that we should stick to established markets.
But her version sounds so much worse.
"The shouting started small," she continues. "Raised voices during arguments. Then it escalated—doors slamming, objects thrown. I spent three years walking on eggshells, trying not to set him off."
I never threw anything, never slammed doors in anger. We fought, sure—loud arguments about her spending, my work hours, the fundamental incompatibility we both refused to acknowledge. But this? This is fiction dressed as testimony.
"What made you finally leave?" Dr. Chen asks.
"I realized I was losing myself. Becoming smaller and smaller to fit into his idea of the perfect partner, perfect trophy." Vivienne's eyes fill with tears. "I couldn't breathe anymore."
The comments are flooding in. Supportive messages, people sharing their own stories, some asking directly if she's talking about "that Wolfe guy from the foundation documentary."
My door opens. Jocelyn walks in, pale and tight-jawed.
"You saw it," I say.
"Along with screenshots from the foundation's internal Slack."
She shows me her phone. Staff members in a private channel, speculating:
Is Vivienne talking about Zayden?
Has to be. Timeline matches.
But he seems so different with Jocelyn. Maybe he changed?
Or maybe he's just better at hiding it now.
My stomach turns. Our own team, people we work with daily, questioning whether I'm an abuser.
"There's more," Jocelyn says quietly. She pulls up another thread. This one's discussing me and her—whether I'm controlling, whether the power dynamic in our relationship is healthy, whether Jocelyn's "the other woman" Vivienne referenced in the Vogue interview.
"Fuck." I set down my phone. "They think you're complicit. That you knew about Vivienne and didn't care."
"Some of them." She sits across from me. "Others are defending us. Pointing out that Vivienne never filed police reports, never sought restraining orders, never did anything except launch a PR campaign timed perfectly with her brand relaunch."
"Won't matter. Public opinion doesn't care about evidence, just narratives." I run my hands through my hair. "We're losing control of this story."
"So we take it back." Jocelyn leans forward. "The documentary crew is already scheduled to start filming next week. We move up our sit-down interview. Address this directly."
"And say what? 'My ex-fiancée is lying for publicity'? That makes me look defensive."
"Then we don't talk about her at all. We talk about us. Our actual relationship. What we've built." She reaches across the desk, takes my hand. "Let people see the truth instead of trying to argue with fiction."
She's right. She's always right about this stuff—understanding people in ways I never learned.
But all I can think about is the pregnancy. About Jocelyn carrying our child while strangers debate whether I'm an abusive partner. About Mia potentially seeing these videos someday, wondering if her father is the man Vivienne describes.
"What are you thinking?" Jocelyn asks.
"That I want to protect you, both of you." My hand moves to her stomach—still flat, no visible evidence of the life growing there. "You and this baby. I want to make all of this disappear so you don't have to stress about media scandals while you're pregnant."
"Can't protect me from everything, Zay."
"It doesn't stop me from wanting to." I meet her eyes. "Are you okay? With all this happening now, with the pregnancy hormones and the stress."
"I'm fine. Nauseous, tired, slightly terrified about genetic risks, but fine."
"We have the genetic counseling appointment next week."
"Wednesday at two." She squeezes my hand. "You're still coming?"
"Wouldn't miss it." I pause. "Does Mia know yet?"
"About the pregnancy? No. I want to wait until after the first trimester. After we know everything's... okay."
The fear in her voice cuts through me. She's remembering Mia's leukemia, the genetic markers, all the ways a body can betray you.
"Whatever the counselor says, we'll handle it," I tell her. "Together."
"Together," she echoes. "Which is why we need to deal with Vivienne and Aiden as a team, not you trying to shoulder everything alone."
"I'm used to shouldering things alone."
"Well, get unused to it. You're stuck with a partner now." She stands, moves around the desk to sit in my lap. "A very pregnant partner who's going to be hormonal and demanding for the next eight months."
Despite everything, I smile. "Only eight months? You've been demanding for three years."
"Fair point." She kisses me, soft and grounding. "But seriously, we coordinate our response, show a united front and let people see our actual relationship instead of Vivienne's fiction."
My phone buzzes again. This time it's our private investigator: ‘Preliminary report on Aiden Wolfe ready. Not good. Call when you can.’
"Aiden," I tell Jocelyn, showing her the message.
Her expression darkens. "What do you think he found?"
"Nothing I want to know." But I have to know, have to understand what we're dealing with.
I dial the investigator. He answers immediately.
"Mr. Wolfe. Your brother's been busy."
"How busy?"
"Healthcare data breach charges in two states. Settled out of court. Multiple restraining orders from former employers. A suspended investigation into identity theft that mysteriously disappeared."
He pauses. "And he's been following your foundation's activities for at least eight months. I found evidence he attended your gala in September under a fake name."
My blood runs cold. "He was at our gala?"
"Bought a table as 'Adrian Wade, Montgomery Consulting.' Used a legitimate business registration to get through your background checks."
Jocelyn's face has gone white. She can hear every word.
"What else?" I ask.
"He's made contact with several former Wolfe Industries employees. The ones who left during the corruption investigations. Looks like he's building a case—or a narrative—about your involvement in Harrison's crimes."
"I was cleared of any wrongdoing."
"Legally, yes. But public opinion doesn't work on legal standards." The investigator's voice is grim. "He's also been in contact with someone at Meridian Media Productions. Can't confirm what they discussed, but the timing suggests…"
"He's trying to influence the documentary."
"That would be my assessment."
After I hang up, Jocelyn and I sit in silence.
"He was at our gala," she finally says. "Watched us. Probably talked to staff, donors, gathered information."
"And we had no idea." The violation of it makes me want to break something. "He's been planning this for months."
"So we plan better." Her voice is steel. "We're smarter, better resourced, and we actually have truth on our side."
"Truth doesn't always win."
"Then we make sure it does." She stands, pulls me up with her. "Call Landon. Call Rachel. We're moving up the documentary interview. And we're going public with the pregnancy."
"Jocelyn, no."
"He already knows. Vivienne's going to find out. The media will dig it up." She cups my face. "We control the narrative before they do. We tell our story our way."
Looking at her—fierce and determined and carrying my child—I'm reminded why I fell in love with this woman. She doesn't back down, doesn't let fear win.
"Okay," I say finally.
My phone buzzes with another notification—Vivienne's video has hit a million views.
But I'm not thinking about Vivienne anymore. Or Aiden. Or the mounting pressure from every direction.
I'm thinking about the baby, about building a family that chooses love over legacy. About being the father this child deserves—present, honest, unafraid.
Everything else is just noise.