Jocelyn's POV
The nausea hits at 9:47 AM, right in the middle of reviewing donor correspondence.
I've had morning sickness for three weeks now—manageable queasiness that comes and goes, usually settled by crackers and ginger tea. But this is different.
This feels like my stomach is staging a full revolt, and I barely make it to my private bathroom before everything from breakfast comes back up.
Afterward, I sit on the cold tile floor, forehead pressed against porcelain, trying to remember how to breathe normally.
This isn't just pregnancy hormones. This is my body processing stress it can't metabolize any other way—Aiden's hand on my elbow, Landon's case file, the legal pad in my locked desk drawer filling up with documentation of a pattern I should have recognized sooner.
I pull myself upright, rinse my mouth, and return to my desk. The donor correspondence can wait. My phone is buzzing with a text from Maya: ‘Vivienne just posted.’
I'd promised Zayden I'd step back from social media. No doom-scrolling, no checking comments, no feeding the algorithm my anxiety. But this isn't casual browsing—this is intelligence gathering. At least that's what I tell myself as I open Instagram.
Vivienne's profile loads with the blue verified checkmark that lends false credibility to whatever performance she's staging. The post is simple—white text on black background, the aesthetic choice of someone who wants maximum dramatic weight.
'After much reflection and therapy, I'm ready to share my truth. When I lost my baby, I was already grieving the loss of a relationship with someone who made me believe I was his future. Instead, I was discarded while processing unimaginable trauma.'
'He moved on within months—to the woman who is now his wife. I don't blame her. She didn't know what he was capable of. But I hope she's careful. I hope she never experiences what I did. #SurvivorStory #SpeakingMyTruth'
Seventeen minutes live. Forty-two thousand likes.
Comments flood beneath it—You're so brave. He's a monster and she's complicit. Once an abuser always an abuser.
My hands start shaking before I can set the phone down.
She's rewritten our entire timeline. Made it sound like Zayden abandoned her during her greatest vulnerability and immediately fell into my arms.
Never mind that we didn't meet until two years after their relationship ended. Never mind that her pregnancy is fictional, her trauma fabricated, her entire narrative constructed from strategic lies.
None of that matters to the forty-two thousand people who've already decided she's telling the truth.
My phone lights up. Zayden's name on the screen. I let it ring.
Not because I don't want to hear his voice—I do, desperately. But I know exactly how the conversation would go.
He'll say Stephen's already drafting a response. He'll say Maya's compiling evidence. He'll tell me to come home early, and I'll refuse, and we'll have the same argument about whether staying proves strength or stubbornness.
I don't have the energy for that script today. Instead, I sit with what Vivienne's done. Really sit with it—not the panic response, not the nausea, but the cold architecture of her strategy.
She's positioned me as the other woman. Forty-two thousand people have decided I'm complicit in a crime that never happened, and no timeline of receipts will change their minds.
Facts don't compete with narrative. They never have.
I set the phone face-down and pull up the staff meeting agenda instead.
Because in forty minutes, twenty-three people who work for this foundation are going to file into the conference room looking for reassurance that their jobs, their mission, their daily work still matters despite the circus outside our doors.
And I need to give them that. Even if I'm not sure I believe it myself.
***
The conference room is tense. Twenty-three faces watching me like I hold answers that make sense of this chaos.
"I know you're all seeing the media coverage," I start. "I know reporters are calling, asking invasive questions, trying to get quotes about Zayden's character. Here's what you need to know—we're not engaging. Our work speaks for itself."
I pull up the impact report on the projector. Numbers that can't be argued with.
"Last quarter, we served 847 families. Provided 12,000 hours of childcare. Helped 94 families navigate medical debt. Connected 156 people to employment opportunities."
I let the numbers sink in. "That's what this foundation does. That's what matters. Not celebrity drama. Not PR campaigns. Results."
"But what about the donors?" Jeremy from intake asks from the back. "If they pull funding, we can't help anyone."
"Then we find new donors. Ones who care about mission alignment over optics." I meet his eyes. "Yes, this is scary. Yes, we might lose some funding. But we've been through worse and survived. We'll survive this too."
"What if they're right?" Another voice, quieter. Sarah from medical advocacy. "What if there's truth to what Vivienne's saying?"
The room goes completely silent.
Zayden tenses beside me, but I put my hand on his arm. This is my answer to give.
"I've worked alongside Zayden for three years. I've seen him under pressure, under scrutiny, under stress that would break most people. I've watched him build this foundation from his father's blood money into something that actually helps families."
I pause, making sure everyone's listening.
"I'm not going to stand here and tell you he's perfect. He's demanding, stubborn, occasionally insufferable."
A few people smile despite the tension.
"But he's not what Vivienne's describing. And if you have doubts, I encourage you to make your own assessment based on what you've actually witnessed—not what a PR campaign wants you to believe."
The room empties slowly afterward. A few people catch my eye on the way out—Jeremy gives a tight nod, Sarah's expression is softer than when she asked the question, and two program coordinators murmur "thank you" as they pass.
Not everyone looks convinced, but the fear has receded into something more like cautious trust. Enough to keep moving forward. Enough for today.
Zayden and I return to my office.
"Thank you," he says quietly. "For defending me."
"I was defending the foundation. You just happen to be part of it."
He almost smiles. "Still. Thank you."
My phone buzzes. Reminder: ‘Ultrasound appointment — 4:00 PM.’
Eight weeks pregnant today. First time we'll actually see the baby on screen. Hear the heartbeat, confirm viability, start the genetic screening process.
The timing feels cruel—confirmation of new life on a day when everything around us feels like it's dying. But maybe that's exactly the point. Maybe the universe has a dark sense of humor about reminding you what matters when you're drowning in what doesn't.
"You're still coming, right?" I ask, even though he's promised three times already.
"Wouldn't miss it." He pulls me close. "Reporters, donor meetings, media circuses—none of it matters more than seeing our baby for the first time."
"Even if Morrison pulls their funding this morning?"
"Even then." His hand moves to my stomach—gentle, reverent, the opposite of everything happening outside these walls. "We have priorities now. Family first, foundation first. Everything else is noise."
I lean into him and let myself believe it. Just for this moment, in the quiet of my office with Mia's tiger drawings taped to the wall and a heartbeat appointment three hours away—I let the noise fade and the truth remain.
We're having a baby. In the middle of a war we didn't start, fought by enemies we didn't choose, we're building something that can't be taken by Instagram posts or fabricated timelines or forty-two thousand strangers who think they know our story.