Jocelyn's POV
I hear Aiden's voice when I'm walking past the volunteer coordination room, and every nerve in my body goes electric.
He's not supposed to be in this building. His internal access was revoked weeks ago—executive floors, private offices, after-hours entry, all stripped after the security audit.
But access revocation and physical absence are apparently two different things when you have a board member holding doors open.
His voice carries through the half-open door with the practiced warmth of a man who could sell grief counseling at a funeral.
"—understand that uncertainty is difficult. But fragmented leadership makes organizations vulnerable. When decision-makers can't communicate effectively, when there's visible tension between executives, the entire structure becomes unstable."
I freeze in the hallway, press myself against the wall, out of the doorframe's line of sight.
Fifteen people in that room. New volunteers going through orientation, learning about foundation programs and procedures.
People who signed up to stuff donation mailers and organize clothing drives and mentor at-risk youth. Being fed Aiden's propaganda while I stand outside calculating how he got past the guest authorization protocols we implemented three weeks ago.
"Is it true they're sleeping in separate rooms?" someone asks. A woman, older, the kind of concerned tone that suggests genuine worry weaponized by context.
"I couldn't say." Aiden's voice stays carefully neutral—the pause after it screams louder than words. "What I can tell you is that effective leadership requires unified vision. And right now, from what I'm observing, the foundation is being run by two people moving in opposite directions."
My hand finds the doorframe. Grips until my knuckles go white.
"I heard there might be leadership changes," another voice says. Younger, male. "Is that true?"
"The board is evaluating options." Aiden's tone suggests insider knowledge he doesn't have—or shouldn't have. "They're committed to the mission. But they're also committed to ensuring the foundation survives whatever personal drama is affecting current leadership."
I push the door open.
Fifteen faces turn toward me. Aiden doesn't look surprised—just rearranges his expression into mild concern, as if I'm the interruption rather than the person whose building he's standing in.
"Aiden." I keep my voice level despite the blood hammering in my temples. "You're not authorized to be here. Your access was revoked."
"I was invited." He gestures to the back corner, where Marcus sits with his arms crossed and his expression carefully neutral. "Marcus thought volunteers would benefit from hearing a family perspective on the foundation's mission."
Marcus nods confirmation. Of course he does.
I should have predicted this. We locked the front door and the staff entrance and the executive elevator—but Marcus found a side window.
Volunteer orientation isn't scheduled through executive leadership. It's coordinated through Maya's team, which means volunteer guest lists don't cross my desk. Marcus arranged this through a channel we didn't think to secure.
"The orientation is volunteer programming," I say, addressing Marcus directly. "Not an open forum for unauthorized visitors."
"Aiden is my guest." Marcus stands, moving to join Aiden at the front of the room with the smooth coordination of two people who've rehearsed their positions. "Volunteers were asking questions about organizational stability. I thought providing perspective from the Wolfe family would be reassuring."
"Reassuring." I repeat the word, letting its absurdity fill the space. "Telling new volunteers that leadership is fractured and might be replaced—that's your version of reassuring?"
The volunteers watch this exchange with the uncomfortable fascination of bystanders at an accident. Some are shrinking into their chairs. Others are leaning forward, sensing drama they didn't sign up for but can't look away from.
An older woman raises her hand tentatively. "We were just wondering if the volunteer program would continue operating normally. Given the... circumstances."
"What circumstances?"
Silence. Eyes shifting to Aiden and Marcus, then away.
A younger man speaks up. "We've heard rumors that leadership might be transitioning. That maybe you're stepping back from your role."
"Who told you that?"
Nobody answers. But the direction of their glances is answer enough.
"The foundation's leadership is stable," I say, pivoting to address the room directly. Not Marcus. Not Aiden.
The fifteen people who came here to help families and are instead witnessing a power struggle they shouldn't have to navigate.
"Our programs are running, our staff is committed. The work you signed up to do is meaningful and ongoing, regardless of whatever rumors you've encountered in the last twenty minutes."
"Can I speak with you both?" I gesture toward the hallway. "Privately."
In the corridor, I wait until we're out of volunteer earshot. Then I stop pretending to be calm.
"You're using orientation to undermine my position. Seeding doubt in people who haven't even started their first shift."
"We're answering honest questions." Aiden's voice stays maddeningly reasonable. "Volunteers have concerns. We addressed them."
"You manufactured the concerns and then offered yourself as the solution." I turn to Marcus. "You scheduled this behind my back. Brought him in through a channel you knew wouldn't be flagged."
"Volunteer coordination isn't executive-restricted. I didn't violate any policy."
"You violated the intent of every policy we implemented to keep him out of this building."
“Your marriage is fracturing publicly. Your stress is visible to anyone who looks.”
Marcus crosses his arms.
"Staff are terrified, donors are fleeing, and now volunteers are questioning whether their time is worth investing in an organization that might not survive the quarter. Those are facts, Jocelyn, not propaganda."
"Facts Aiden cultivated through systematic harassment that you helped facilitate."
"I'm here as a board member's guest." Aiden's smile is thin, precise. "Everything's perfectly legal. Just like everything I've done has been perfectly legal."
The casual admission—everything I've done—hangs between us like a confession disguised as a dare. He's telling me he knows exactly what he's doing. Knows it's orchestrated, knows it's calculated, and knows we can't prove it in language a court would accept.
"Leave," I say. "Both of you. Now."
"The orientation isn't—" Marcus starts.
"I'll finish the orientation. Without editorial commentary from people who aren't authorized to represent this foundation's leadership." My voice is steady, professional, and carries underneath it the particular authority of a woman who's done being reasonable about unreasonable things.
They leave. Aiden first, unhurried, glancing back once with that patient smile. Marcus follows, and the look he gives me as he passes—pitying, almost gentle—is worse than anything Aiden's ever said.
Because Aiden's cruelty is deliberate. Marcus's is the kind that believes itself to be mercy.
I return to the volunteer room. Fifteen faces, varying degrees of sympathy and suspicion.
"I apologize for that disruption," I say, forcing composure I don't feel. "Let me tell you about the families you'll be helping."
I spend the next forty minutes doing what I do best—talking about the mission, the impact, the real human beings whose lives change because someone shows up to help.
By the end, most of the doubt has receded. Not all of it—Aiden's seeds don't uproot that easily—but enough.
After the volunteers file out, I lock the coordination room door and lean against it. My blood pressure monitor is in my bag. Dr. Reeves said to check twice daily. I pull it out, strap it on, press the button.
152/96.
Higher than the appointment three days ago. Higher than the threshold she circled in red on my chart.
I stare at the numbers. Think about seizures and organ failure and a baby developing in a body that's slowly cooking itself with stress hormones.
I should call Zayden. Should tell him about the diagnosis, about the numbers climbing, about the volunteer orientation ambush that just spiked my blood pressure into territory that makes doctors use words like "emergency."
Instead, I pack the monitor back into my bag and walk to my office.
Because if I tell him now—about the blood pressure, about the diagnosis, about what just happened—he'll pull me out of the foundation entirely. And Aiden wins. Marcus wins. The narrative that I'm too fragile, too pregnant, too compromised to lead becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.
So I keep the numbers to myself. Add them to the growing collection of secrets I'm carrying alongside the baby, alongside the prescriptions in my nightstand drawer, alongside the terrifying knowledge that my body is failing while I pretend it isn't.
152/96.
The numbers burn behind my eyes for the rest of the day.