Jocelyn's POV
The Henderson Foundation representatives are exactly the kind of donors we need right now—serious money, long-term commitment, genuine interest in our programs rather than performative philanthropy.
Which is why I've spent three hours preparing for this tour, rehearsing talking points, ensuring every program director knows their budget numbers and success metrics by heart.
Mrs. Henderson asks sharp questions. Her husband takes notes on a leather-bound pad. These are people who do due diligence before writing checks, and I respect that even as it terrifies me.
We're in the youth employment center on the second floor when I see him.
Aiden walks through the main entrance like he owns the building, nodding at the reception desk without stopping for badge verification. Charcoal suit, hair perfectly styled, expression arranged in professional pleasantness.
He moves through our lobby with the unhurried confidence of a man whose last name is on the front door—even though his has never been.
My stomach drops.
"—and our job placement rate for at-risk youth is currently at seventy-three percent," I'm saying to Mrs. Henderson, forcing my voice to stay level as Aiden approaches our group. "Which represents a fifteen percent increase from last year's—"
"Jocelyn!" His voice carries across the space, warm and familiar, like we're old friends reuniting at a dinner party. "Sorry I'm late. Marcus said the tour started at two."
The Henderson representatives turn toward him with polite curiosity.
I force my expression into professional neutrality. "I wasn't aware we had additional attendees today."
"Family privilege."
He extends his hand to Mrs. Henderson with a smile that could sell ice to Alaskans.
"Aiden Wolfe, Zayden's brother. I've been involved with the foundation's development from the beginning—wanted to personally ensure our prospective donors see everything we're building here."
Mrs. Henderson shakes his hand, clearly charmed by the confidence and the Wolfe name recognition. Of course she is. That's the whole point—the name does the work. No title needed, no position required. Just Wolfe, and every door opens.
"Marcus specifically asked me to join," Aiden continues, sliding seamlessly into our group. "Said the Henderson Foundation would appreciate a family perspective on our strategic direction."
I want to call him a liar. Want to pull out my phone and text Marcus right now asking if he actually extended this invitation or if Aiden is using his name as cover.
But doing that in front of major donors would create exactly the scene he wants—the co-director losing composure over a family member's friendly interest. So I smile.
"Of course. We're just discussing our youth employment outcomes."
The tour continues with Aiden attached to our group like a tumor I can't remove without causing more damage than letting it remain.
He asks intelligent questions. Makes thoughtful observations about program design and community impact. Positions himself as deeply invested in the foundation's success.
To the Henderson representatives, he probably looks like exactly what he claims—a devoted family member with a personal stake in the mission. But I feel him watching me, analyzing every word I say, every gesture, cataloging material for whatever he's building next.
When we reach the community resource center, he moves closer. His voice drops to a tone that seems confidential but carries just enough to ensure Mrs. Henderson and nearby staff can hear.
"I have to say, Jocelyn, you're handling the media situation remarkably well. Not many people could maintain this level of professionalism while their personal life is under such public scrutiny."
Mrs. Henderson's expression shifts—curiosity mixed with something that might be concern.
"The foundation's mission remains our priority regardless of external noise," I say, keeping my voice steady.
"Absolutely." Aiden nods seriously. "Though I do worry about the toll it's taking. Internal instability, staff concerns, donor hesitation—these things compound quickly if not addressed properly."
There it is. The knife slipped between ribs while smiling for the audience.
He's not just mentioning problems—he's creating them, in real time, in front of people who hold our funding in their hands. Planting seeds of doubt in language so measured that challenging him would make me look defensive.
"Our internal operations remain strong," I counter. "Staff morale is high, programs are fully funded through next quarter, and our impact metrics continue improving across all key areas."
"Of course." He spreads his hands, the picture of agreement. "I just mean that perception matters. When donors see leadership under siege, when media coverage focuses more on personal drama than programmatic success—that creates narrative problems hard to overcome."
Mrs. Henderson is watching this exchange with increasing interest. Her husband has pulled out his phone, presumably googling the "personal drama" Aiden just referenced.
"Which is why we're fortunate to have family who understand that staying focused on mission is the best response to temporary distractions," I say, forcing warmth into my voice while my nails dig crescents into my palms.
The tour concludes fifteen minutes later with polite handshakes and promises to review our proposal. But I can see the doubt Aiden planted. The questions forming behind professional courtesy that weren't there an hour ago.
After the Henderson representatives disappear into the elevator, I corner Aiden near the stairwell.
"Marcus didn't invite you."
"Didn't he?" Aiden's smile doesn't waver. "Maybe you should ask him. Though I'd be careful about questioning the motives of people who support this foundation. That kind of internal suspicion tends to have consequences."
"You crashed a private donor tour to undermine my credibility."
"I attended a foundation event at a friend's suggestion. A family member showing interest in the family foundation." He tilts his head, expression shifting to something like wounded confusion. "How sinister."
His tone remains pleasant, reasonable. The kind of voice you'd use with a child who's overreacting to a shadow.
"If you have concerns about who attends donor events, perhaps that's something to address through proper channels rather than confrontational accusations."
He's already reframing it. Constructing the narrative where I'm the problem—paranoid, hostile, creating conflict where none exists.
"Stay away from my donor meetings," I say quietly.
"Or what?" The mask slips, just slightly—enough that I see the real thing underneath. Cold, calculating, enjoying this. "You'll add more cameras? Tell donors that the Wolfe family can't even attend Wolfe Foundation events?"
He leans closer, voice dropping. "Every move you make to keep me out just proves you're afraid of what I might say. And donors notice that, Jocelyn. They notice instability."
Then he's gone, footsteps receding down the stairwell, leaving me alone with the aftermath of sabotage wrapped in family courtesy.
I find David in the security office ten minutes later.
"Pull badge access for the last two hours. I need to know exactly how Aiden got into this building."
David's already pulling up the system. "Front desk logged him as a visitor at 1:52 PM. Authorized by..." He trails off, jaw tightening. "Marcus Whitmore. Signed him in as an approved guest."
"Of course he did."
"Want me to flag it?"
"Flag it. Document it. And pull every instance in the last month where Marcus authorized a visitor who wasn't on the pre-approved list."
David's fingers move across the keyboard. "Jocelyn? Marcus has authorized Aiden as a guest visitor four times in the past three weeks."
The number sits between us like evidence in a trial.
Four times. Four separate occasions where a board member I've trusted for two years deliberately facilitated access for a man who corners me in alcoves, stages photographs of my harassment, and just torpedoed a million-dollar donor meeting while pretending to be a concerned brother.
"Send everything to Landon," I say. "And update the visitor policy. No guests authorized by individual board members without executive sign-off."
"That'll create friction with the board."
"Good." I turn toward the door. "Let it create friction. I'm done being polite about people who hold doors open for the man trying to destroy us."
On the way back to my office, I text Zayden: Aiden crashed the Henderson tour. Marcus signed him in. Fourth time in three weeks. David's documenting everything.
His response comes in seconds: Conference room. Fifteen minutes. Bring David.