Jocelyn’s POV
Three days—that's how long I stayed away from the foundation after the service corridor escape.
Three days of hiding in our apartment while the internet continued its trial by social media, while reporters camped outside our building, while Vivienne's interview racked up millions of views.
But hiding doesn't solve anything. It just confirms what they're already saying—that I'm guilty, complicit, too ashamed to show my face.
So I'm back.
The staff still won't make eye contact, but at least they're pretending to work instead of openly whispering when I walk past. Small mercies.
I'm in the printer alcove on the third floor when I hear footsteps behind me.
The small space tucked between the copy room and supply closet isn't exactly private, but it's isolated enough that most people avoid it unless they need to print something urgently.
The printer jams halfway through my document—of course it does—and I'm bent over the machine trying to extract crumpled paper when someone speaks.
"You shouldn't be lifting heavy things in your condition."
I freeze.
Aiden's voice is soft, almost concerned, which makes it worse somehow. I straighten slowly, the mangled papers still in my hand.
He's standing in the alcove entrance, blocking the only exit. Perfectly tailored suit, expression arranged in something that might pass for sympathy if you didn't know better.
"Excuse me?" I keep my voice level, professional.
"The stress you're under." He takes a step closer, and the alcove suddenly feels much smaller. "It can't be good for you. Physically, I mean."
My heart rate kicks up, but I force myself to stay calm. "I'm fine. Just a printer jam."
"Of course."
Another step. He's close enough now that I can smell his cologne—expensive, subtle, suffocating in the confined space.
"Though I imagine everything feels harder right now. The media attention, the allegations, the foundation's reputation crumbling. That's a lot of weight to carry."
He says it like he cares. Like he's genuinely concerned about my wellbeing rather than circling like a predator who's scented blood.
"I can manage." I move to step around him, but he shifts slightly, not quite blocking my path but making me have to squeeze past if I want to leave.
"I'm sure you can." His hand comes up, fingers wrapping around my elbow with practiced familiarity. "You're stronger than you look."
The touch is light, almost casual. The kind of contact that could be explained away as friendly, supportive, perfectly innocent.
But there's nothing innocent about the way his thumb presses against the inside of my arm, or how his grip tightens just enough to make it clear he's controlling my movement.
"Don't touch me." The words come out sharp, clear, absolute.
I jerk my arm away, putting distance between us. My back hits the printer, and I realize too late that he's effectively cornered me.
Aiden's expression doesn't change. He doesn't apologize or step back or acknowledge that he's violated my space. Instead, he sighs—long-suffering, almost disappointed.
"Really, Jocelyn? Dramatics? I was offering support."
"By grabbing my arm without permission?"
"I touched your elbow. Barely." He spreads his hands, the picture of wounded innocence. "You're obviously under tremendous stress. I understand that makes people... reactive. But you're seeing threats where there aren't any."
The gaslighting is so smooth it's almost impressive. He's already rewritten what just happened—minimizing his action, pathologizing my response, positioning himself as the reasonable one dealing with an irrational woman.
"I asked you not to touch me," I say, keeping my voice steady despite the adrenaline flooding my system. "That's not dramatic, that's a boundary."
"A boundary." He repeats the word like it's amusing. "Between colleagues who've worked together for two years? That seems a bit extreme, don't you think?"
"No, I don't think it's extreme to expect basic physical autonomy in my workplace."
"Your workplace." His tone shifts, becomes colder. "Technically, it's the foundation's workplace. We're all just employees here, even you. Though I suppose you're used to special treatment given your... unique position."
The implication is clear: I'm not here on merit, I'm here because I'm sleeping with the co-founder.
"Was there something you actually needed?" I ask. "Or did you just come here to have this incredibly inappropriate conversation?"
"I came to check on you." He leans against the doorframe, casual, like we're having a friendly chat instead of a power struggle in a printer alcove. "You looked pale this morning, fatigued. I wanted to make sure you were taking care of yourself."
There it is again. That loaded phrase, that careful emphasis that suggests he knows something I haven't told him.
"I'm perfectly fine."
"Are you?"
He tilts his head, studying me with an intensity that makes my skin crawl.
"Because from where I'm standing, you look like someone carrying a very heavy burden. Multiple burdens, actually. The kind that take a physical toll over time."
My hand moves unconsciously to my stomach before I can stop it. The gesture is tiny, protective, lasting barely a second.
But Aiden sees it. Of course he does. His smile is slow, knowing, triumphant.
"You should be careful," he says softly. "Physical strain can be dangerous, especially in the early stages. All that stress, the media circus, the public scrutiny—it adds up. The body remembers even when we try to push through."
Ice floods my veins.
He's doing it again. The same calculated game he played in the conference room—wielding what he knows about the pregnancy, each comment another reminder that my most private vulnerability is his to reference whenever he wants.
"I don't know what you think you're implying…"
"I'm not implying anything." His voice is all concern now, dripping with false sympathy. "I'm simply saying that you should take care of yourself. These are difficult times, and you wouldn't want anything to happen because you were trying to be strong when you should have been resting."
The threat is wrapped in concern, but it's still a threat.
He's telling me he knows about the pregnancy. He's telling me he could use that information. He's telling me that my vulnerability is visible to him, and he's watching it with the focused attention of someone planning how to exploit it.
"You need to leave." My voice doesn't shake, which feels like a miracle. "Now."
"Of course." He straightens, adjusting his cuffs with deliberate slowness. "I'll let you get back to your printer jam. Though really, you should let someone else handle the physical labor. No need to strain yourself unnecessarily."
He says it like helpful advice. It lands like a promise of exposure.
Aiden steps out of the alcove, then pauses, looking back at me with that same knowing smile.
"Take care of yourself, Jocelyn. You're working for two now, after all. That changes everything."
Then he's gone, footsteps receding down the hallway, leaving me alone with the jammed printer and the terrible certainty that my secret isn't secret anymore.
My hands are shaking when I pull out my phone.
I need to tell Zayden. I need to tell him that Aiden knows about the baby, that he's using it as leverage, that our private joy has become another weapon in whatever game he's playing.
But my fingers hover over the screen, and I can't quite make the call.
Because telling Zayden means admitting that I'm not safe here. That the foundation we built together has become a place where I can be cornered in alcoves and threatened by board members who know exactly where to press to cause maximum damage.
The printer beeps, finally cleared of its jam.
I leave the documents sitting in the tray and walk out.