Jocelyn's POV
The Morrison Trust calls at 9:15 AM. I know what's coming before I pick up—you don't schedule "urgent conversations about foundation leadership" when the news is good.
"Jocelyn, thank you for making time." Richard Morrison's voice carries the careful warmth of someone about to sever a relationship while pretending it's a pause. "I want you to know this decision wasn't made lightly."
"Decision," I repeat. Not question—just a pause.
"We're suspending our commitment. The full $1.5 million, effective immediately."
He says it the way people deliver eulogies—respectful, final, already looking past the body.
"Our board feels that continued association during this period of public scrutiny creates reputational risk we can't justify to our stakeholders."
Reputational risk. The phrase that's replaced "we believe in your mission" in every donor conversation for the past two weeks.
"Richard, the allegations against Zayden are fabricated. We have documentation…"
"I'm sure you do." The interruption is gentle, which makes it worse. "But our obligation is to our own donors and beneficiaries. Perception matters as much as fact in philanthropic circles, and right now, the perception is—"
"That we're too controversial to fund."
Silence first, then: "I'm sorry, Jocelyn. Truly. When this resolves, we'd welcome the opportunity to revisit."
The line goes dead. I set the phone down with the precise care of someone handling something explosive, because if I let my hands do what they want, I'll hurl it through the window.
$1.5 million. Gone in a ninety-second phone call.
I pull up the budget spreadsheet. The numbers were already bleeding before Morrison—now they're hemorrhaging.
I delete the Morrison line item and watch the projections recalculate in real time, red numbers cascading down the screen like a financial EKG going flatline.
Maya knocks once and enters without waiting. Her expression tells me she already knows.
"Word travels fast," I say.
"Richard Morrison's assistant called Patricia to cancel next month's check processing. Patricia told finance, finance told everyone." Maya sits across from me. "Staff are rattled."
"How rattled?"
"Three people asked me this morning whether they should start looking for other positions. Not because they want to leave, but because they're worried there won't be positions to leave from."
She pauses. "Daniel in development mentioned updating his resume. Carla from youth services asked for a private meeting tomorrow."
These are people who've been with us since the beginning. People who believed in the mission enough to take below-market salaries because the work mattered more than the paycheck.
And now they're preparing exit strategies because I can't keep the lights on.
"What about Henderson?" I ask. "After the tour disaster?"
"Silent. No response to our follow-up emails. Their assistant told me they're 'evaluating options,' which is donor-speak for…"
"We're done." I close my eyes. "They're done."
My phone buzzes. Unknown number. I almost ignore it—anonymous messages have become white noise in my life, but the preview shows a name I recognize.
Gerald Torres. Longtime supporter. $175,000 annual commitment.
I answer. "Gerald."
"Jocelyn, I'll keep this brief. We're putting our quarterly contribution on hold."
"Gerald, please…"
"I have a reputation to protect. I can't be associated with a scandal, even if it turns out to be false. I'm sorry."
The line goes dead. Second donor in forty minutes.
By noon, the count reaches four.
Morrison Trust: $1.5 million, suspended. Gerald Torres: $175,000, on hold. The Richardson Foundation sends a three-paragraph email—polite, regretful, citing "concerns about organizational stability"—pulling $250,000 in annual support.
And the Carmichael Foundation, our smallest but longest-standing partner, calls to express "serious reservations" that I translate as a withdrawal announcement they haven't worked up the nerve to formalize yet.
Over $2 million in committed funding, evaporating in a single morning.
I'm calculating which programs survive and which don't when Maya appears again, this time with David.
"You need to see this," David says, moving to my window.
Three reporters with cameras are positioned outside the main entrance. Not the discreet observation we've grown used to—aggressive staging, microphones ready, designed to intercept anyone coming or going.
"They're stopping staff," Maya says. "Carla got cornered walking in. They asked whether she feels 'safe' working under leadership facing domestic violence allegations."
My stomach drops. "They asked her if she feels safe?"
"Daniel too. He told them to fuck off, but four other staff members have been approached, and people are scared to leave for lunch."
I already know from David's previous briefings that they're on the public sidewalk—can't force them off without a trespassing complaint that would only generate more coverage.
The building becomes a fishbowl. Every person entering or leaving, a potential interview subject for reporters who've already decided the story.
"Side entrance," I say. "Everyone uses the parking garage door until further notice."
"Already sent the message." Maya shows me her phone—the staff group chat flooded with anger and fear and questions about whether this is permanent now. Whether this is what working here looks like from now on.
I turn from the window because watching my staff duck through back doors to avoid journalists makes me want to scream in a way that wouldn't stop once it started.
"What's our financial runway?" Zayden asks from the doorway. I didn't hear him arrive, but he's been listening long enough to know the scope.
"With the losses so far? Three months at current programming levels. Maybe four if we cut the Detroit expansion and reduce the medical advocacy team to half-staff."
The words taste like betrayal. The medical advocacy team serves forty families navigating catastrophic diagnoses.
Cutting them means real people losing real support during the worst moments of their lives—because Vivienne posted an Instagram story and Aiden knows how to exploit the fallout.
"We're not cutting medical advocacy," Zayden says.
"Then we're looking at two months before we can't make payroll."
The number sits between us like a bomb with a visible timer.
"What about emergency funding? Grant applications, bridge loans?"
"Emergency grants take six to eight weeks to process. Bridge loans require board approval, and half our board is either sabotaging us or too scared to act."
I pull up the donor database, scrolling through names I used to associate with support and now associate with silence.
"Every major funder in our network is watching to see if we survive before committing. Nobody wants to be the next name associated with a foundation in freefall."
Zayden moves to the chair across from my desk—Mia's chair, I think of it, because that's where she sits when she visits. Where she drew purple tigers last week while I pretended everything was fine.
"We've been so focused on defending ourselves that we forgot to defend the mission," he says quietly. "Every dollar we spend on lawyers and security and crisis management is a dollar that doesn't go to families."
"I know."
"Eight hundred forty-seven families last quarter. That's the number you put on the projector during the staff meeting. Those families don't care about Vivienne's Instagram or Aiden's power games, they care about whether the foundation that promised them help will still exist next month."
"I know, Zay."
"Then we fight differently. We stop playing defense, stop waiting for the next donor to call and the next reporter to show up."
He leans forward.
"We go directly to the families we serve and let them tell our story. Impact testimonials, real faces and outcomes. The kind of evidence that makes 'reputational risk' sound like the cowardice it actually is."
It's not a bad idea. It's actually a good one—shifting the narrative from scandal to mission, from allegations to outcomes. But I'm so tired.
The nausea is constant now, low-grade and relentless, my body processing stress it can't discharge any other way. The baby is growing in an environment flooded with cortisol and adrenaline, and every time I try to slow down, another phone rings with another withdrawal.
"Okay," I say. "Impact campaign. Maya coordinates. We launch by the end of the week."
"And the reporters outside?"
"Let them film an empty sidewalk." I close the budget spreadsheet before the numbers can make me cry. "We have work to do."
It's the only thing left that makes sense. Not the legal battles or the security cameras or the documentation logs—just the work. Eight hundred forty-seven families who need us to still be here next month.
Everything else is noise. Even when the noise is deafening.