Jocelyn’s POV
The interview teaser drops at 6 AM while I'm bent over the toilet, emptying what little I managed to eat for breakfast.
Morning sickness, they call it. Bullshit name for something that hits at all hours.
I hear Zayden's phone buzz from the bedroom. Then his sharp intake of breath. Then footsteps moving fast toward the bathroom.
"Don't come in," I manage between waves of nausea. "I'm fine."
"You're throwing up."
"And pregnant, if you remember."
"Jocelyn, I—"
"Seriously, give me five minutes."
He retreats, but I can feel him hovering just outside the door. Protective mode activated, which would be sweet if I didn't feel like death warmed over.
Finally, the nausea subsides. I rinse my mouth, splash water on my face, try to look human. When I emerge, Zayden's sitting on the bed, phone in hand, jaw tight.
"What happened?" I ask, though I already know. Something Vivienne-related. It's always Vivienne-related these days.
He turns his phone toward me. A promotional clip from some morning show—Vivienne Ashford Opens Up: Full Interview Tomorrow at 9 AM.
I take the phone, press play.
Vivienne's voice, carefully modulated for maximum emotional impact:
"There's behavior that no woman should have to tolerate. Verbal attacks disguised as honesty. Financial control masked as partnership. The kind of manipulation that makes you question your own reality."
The host's voice: "Are you saying this happened to you?"
"I'm saying it happens to many women. Women who stay silent because their partners are powerful. Respected. Wealthy enough to make problems disappear." A strategic pause. "But I won't be silent anymore."
The clip ends with text: Full interview tomorrow. Hear Vivienne's story.
I hand the phone back, feeling fresh nausea that has nothing to do with pregnancy hormones.
"She's naming you without naming you," I say.
"The full interview will probably be more explicit." Zayden sets his phone down like it personally offended him. "Landon texted. The show's promoting it as 'a powerful woman speaks truth about toxic relationships in high society.'"
"Of course they are." I sit beside him on the bed. "Controversy drives ratings."
"This is going to be everywhere tomorrow. Every news outlet, every social media platform, every conversation about the foundation."
He's right. I can already picture it—the foundation's social media flooded with comments, donors calling for statements, staff fielding questions they shouldn't have to answer.
"We knew this was coming," I say, trying to sound calmer than I feel. "Vivienne's been building to this for weeks."
"Knowing it's coming doesn't make it easier." He turns to me, takes my hands. "I want you to step back from public duties for a while."
"What?"
"No media appearances, no donor meetings, no public events. Just internal foundation work until this blows over."
The suggestion lands wrong. Makes my spine straighten defensively.
"You want me to hide?"
"I want you to protect yourself and the baby." His eyes drop to my stomach. "You just threw up for twenty minutes. You're stressed, exhausted, barely keeping food down. Adding media scrutiny on top of that."
"It is part of my job."
"Your job is running the foundation's operations, not being a punching bag for public opinion." His voice is strained, controlled in that way that means he's fighting to stay reasonable. "Jocelyn, please. I'm asking you to reduce stress, not abandon your work."
I want to argue, want to point out that stepping back plays right into the narrative—that I'm weak, complicit, unable to handle pressure. But another wave of nausea hits, and I have to breathe through it carefully.
"I'll think about it," I manage.
"That's not—"
"I said I'll think about it." Sharper than I intend. "I'm not making decisions while I'm actively nauseous and you're in protective mode. Let me get through the next hour without vomiting, then we'll discuss."
He looks like he wants to push. I can see the argument forming—all the logical reasons why I should agree, all the ways he's trying to keep me safe.
But he stops himself. Nods. "Okay. After breakfast. If you can keep breakfast down."
"Low blow."
"Accurate assessment."
I manage half a piece of dry toast and some ginger tea before needing to check my phone. Big mistake.
The foundation's Instagram has 347 new comments overnight. I scroll through them:
How can you work with an abuser?
Money really does buy silence huh
His poor ex-fiancée
Wonder what the REAL story is
Disappointed in this organization
My stomach lurches again. I set the phone down before I can read more.
"Don't look at social media," Zayden says from the kitchen. He's making more toast, apparently determined to keep feeding me until something stays down. "Maya and Landon are handling the response strategy."
"I need to know what people are saying."
"Why? So you can stress yourself into another vomiting session?" He sets the plate in front of me. "What people are saying on Instagram doesn't change the truth. Doesn't change the work we're doing. Doesn't change anything except your blood pressure."
He's right, which is annoying.
I pick up my phone, flip it face-down on the table. "I'm stepping away from social media for a while."
"Really?" He sounds cautiously optimistic.
"Really. I'll keep the apps for when I actually need them—foundation updates, professional stuff. But the doom-scrolling stops today."
"It's a start." He sits across from me. "Now about reducing public duties…"
"I'll do internal work only until after the first trimester." The words come out before I've fully thought them through, but once they're out, I realize they're right. "No media appearances, no donor galas, no public events. Just operations, staff management, budget review."
"Thank you."
"But," I continue firmly, "I'm not hiding. I'm still going to foundation meetings, still running the Medical Family Support Initiative, still doing my actual job. This is about managing stress, not about letting Vivienne's campaign dictate my life."
"Agreed." He reaches across the table, takes my hand. "I'm not trying to control you, I just—"
"You want to protect me. I know." I squeeze his fingers. "And I'm letting you, but there's a difference between protection and isolation. We need to find the balance."
"I'm not always good at balance."
"I know. That's why I'm here, to tell you when you're crossing lines." I manage a small smile. "Like right now, suggesting I avoid all public duties was too far. But asking me to reduce stress during a high-risk first trimester? That's reasonable."
He exhales, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "I'm still learning this. How to care without controlling."
"We're both learning." I take a bite of toast, test whether my stomach will accept it. So far, so good. "You're learning to protect without smothering. I'm learning to accept help without seeing it as weakness."
"How's that going?"
"Terribly, but we're trying."
His phone buzzes. Text from Landon: Morning show interview confirmed for 9 AM tomorrow. Recommend we release a statement tonight to get ahead of it.
"Statement about what?" I ask, reading over his shoulder.
"Our relationship. The foundation. Setting the record straight before Vivienne's version becomes the only version people hear."
"What would it say?"
"That we're focused on our mission. That personal attacks won't distract from helping families. That we're committed to transparency and accountability in our work." He pulls up a draft Landon sent. "Professional, brief, doesn't engage with specific accusations."
I read it twice. It's good—measured, dignified, refusing to play Vivienne's game while still defending ourselves.
"Send it," I say. "But add something about how the foundation's work speaks for itself. Numbers, families served, concrete impact. Make it less about us and more about them."
He nods, starts typing revisions.
My phone buzzes. Maya: Staff meeting at 10 to discuss response protocols. You coming?
I reply: Yes. Just internal meetings for now though.
Her response is immediate: Smart. Take care of yourself.
Zayden finishes the statement, shows me the revised version. I approve, and he sends it to Landon for release.
"Tomorrow's going to be hell," I say quietly.
"Probably." He stands, comes around the table, pulls me into his arms. "But we've survived worse."
"Mia's cancer, Harrison's manipulation, building this foundation from nothing."
"Exactly. Vivienne's PR campaign is annoying, but it's not life or death. It's just noise."
I lean into him, breathing in cedar and coffee and the solid reality of my husband.