Zayden’s POV
The interview airs at 8 PM on a major network.
I'm in my home office reviewing security audit results when Landon calls.
"Don't watch it," he says without preamble. "I mean that. Turn off your TV, close your laptop, don't look at social media."
My stomach drops. "What did she say?"
"Zayden…"
"What. Did. She. Say?"
Silence. Then: "She's claiming you caused a miscarriage. Physical violence, grabbing her hard enough to leave bruises."
The words don't register properly. They're too absurd, too far from reality.
"That never happened."
"I know. But she's saying it on national television with tears and a therapist validating her trauma. It's… fuck, Zayden, it's bad."
I hang up and pull up the interview on my laptop before I can think better of it.
Vivienne sits across from a sympathetic host, dressed in soft neutrals, looking fragile and brave. The chyron reads: "Surviving Abuse: One Woman's Story."
"I got pregnant three months into our relationship," Vivienne says, voice trembling. "I was terrified to tell him. We'd been fighting about money, about control, about my career. I knew he wouldn't react well."
The host leans forward, concern etched on her face. "What happened when you told him?"
"He was furious." Vivienne's hands twist in her lap. "Said the timing was terrible, that I should've been more careful. We argued for hours. He was yelling, getting more and more aggressive."
My chest tightens. None of this happened. Vivienne never told me she was pregnant because she never was pregnant.
"The next part is hard to talk about,"
Vivienne continues, tears forming.
"He grabbed my arm. Hard. I had bruises for weeks—five distinct fingerprints in purple and yellow. I should've left then, but I was scared and pregnant. And convinced myself it was my fault for making him angry."
"Did the pregnancy continue?" the host asks gently.
Vivienne shakes her head, tears spilling over. "I miscarried three days later. Eight weeks along. The doctor said it could've been stress, could've been the physical trauma, could've been natural causes. But I know what I know."
The host's expression radiates sympathy. "You believe the altercation contributed to the miscarriage."
"I believe the violence I experienced created an environment where that baby couldn't survive."
Vivienne's voice breaks completely.
"And I've had to live with that knowledge for years. Wondering if I'd just stayed quiet, if I'd managed his anger better, if I'd been less confrontational—would that baby be alive?"
The camera cuts to the therapist beside her.
"It's common for survivors to blame themselves. But Vivienne, what happened was not your fault. Physical aggression during pregnancy is incredibly dangerous, and the trauma—both physical and psychological—absolutely affects fetal viability."
I close the laptop before I can hear more. My hands are shaking. Actually shaking.
She's claiming I killed her baby. A baby that never existed. Through violence I never committed.
The door to my office opens. Jocelyn stands there, face pale, phone in her hand.
"Maya just sent me the clip," she says quietly. "Tell me it's not true."
"It's not true." The words come out flat. "None of it is true."
"She was never pregnant?"
"Never."
I stand, needing to move, needing to do something with the rage building in my chest. "She never told me she was pregnant, never showed me bruises, never miscarried a baby I didn't know existed."
Jocelyn crosses to me, searching my face. "You're certain?"
"Completely." I meet her eyes. "I swear to you on everything we have—our marriage, our children, this foundation. I never laid hands on Vivienne in anger. I never caused a miscarriage. This is complete fabrication."
"Then why would she claim it?"
"Because it's the perfect lie. Can't be proven or disproven. Medical records are private—she could claim doctor-patient confidentiality prevents her from sharing them."
I sink back into my chair, suddenly exhausted.
"Bruises fade. Miscarriages are common enough that the story sounds plausible. And it positions her as the ultimate victim—woman loses baby to abusive partner."
"But you could get your medical records. Prove you were never involved in prenatal care, never listed as father."
"I wasn't involved because there was no pregnancy." I pulled up my calendar from three years ago, and started scrolling through. "Look. Here's our relationship timeline. We dated for eleven months total. If she got pregnant three months in and miscarried at eight weeks, that puts us at approximately..."
I calculate, "May 2023. I was in Tokyo for three weeks on business. Emails, flight records, hotel receipts—all documented."
"So you weren't even in the country when this supposedly happened?"
"I'd need to verify exact dates, but probably not." I forward the calendar to our lawyer. "Stephen can pull travel records, prove I was overseas during whatever timeframe she's claiming."
Jocelyn sits on the edge of my desk. "Even if you prove you were gone, she'll adjust the timeline. Say she misremembered dates, that trauma affects memory."
She's right. This isn't about truth—it's about narrative.
"What do we do?" I ask.
"We don't engage directly." She's already thinking strategically, I can see it in her eyes. "Responding to this keeps it alive. But we can document. Get your travel records, your medical history showing no prenatal involvement, anything that creates reasonable doubt."
"And the foundation?"
"Takes a hit." Her voice is grim. "Morrison Trust will probably pull funding tomorrow. Others will follow. Some people will believe her regardless of evidence."
My phone starts buzzing. Texts flooding in—Landon with crisis management suggestions, Maya with staff concerns, board members wanting emergency meetings.
Then one from Patricia.
"They're circling," I say. "Patricia says reporters are already showing up at the foundation. Three so far."
"Of course they are. This is the story now. Not our foundation work, not the families we help. Just whether you're an abuser who caused a miscarriage."
The bitterness in her voice matches what I'm feeling.
"I need to release a statement," I say. "Clear, direct denial."
"Through lawyers," Jocelyn corrects. "Personal statements look defensive. Let Stephen handle it. Formal denial, no details, redirect to the foundation's mission."
She's right. She's always right about this stuff.
My phone buzzes again. This time it's a news alert: ‘Vivienne Ashford's Pregnancy Loss Allegations Against Zayden Wolfe Trending Nationally.’
I set the phone face-down, I just can't look at it anymore.
"You believe me, right?" I ask Jocelyn. "You know I didn't do what she's claiming?"
"Of course I believe you." She moves behind my chair, hands on my shoulders. "I've lived with you for three years. I know the difference between control and violence. I know your temper—you get cold, not aggressive. You shut down, not lash out."
"But other people don't know that."
"Other people don't matter." Her hands squeeze. "Our family matters. This baby matters. The foundation's mission matters. Vivienne's lies don't change any of that."
I want to believe her. Want to trust that truth eventually wins.
But I'm watching my reputation burn in real-time, and all I can think about is Jocelyn—eight weeks pregnant, stressed beyond measure, carrying our baby while the world debates whether I killed someone else's.
"This could hurt you," I say. "Hurt the baby. The stress—"
"Is manageable." She comes around the chair, sits in my lap. "I'm not fragile. Our baby's not fragile. We're going to get through this."
"How?"
"Same way we get through everything else." She kisses me softly. "Together. With lawyers and documentation and refusal to let lies become the truth just because they're repeated loudly enough."
My arms wrap around her, holding tight. She's pregnant with my child while my ex-fiancée claims I killed hers.
The cruelty of the timing isn't lost on me.
"I love you," I say into her hair.
"I love you too." She pulls back, looks at me seriously. "Now call Stephen. Get ahead of this legally. And tomorrow, we face whatever comes next."
Tomorrow.
When donors flee. When reporters demand statements. When the foundation we built starts crumbling under accusations I can't fully disprove.
But tonight, Jocelyn's in my arms. Our baby's heartbeat is strong. And the truth is still the truth, even when no one wants to hear it.