My Boss, My Babydaddy

Chapter 106

Jocelyn's POV

I'm still in bed when the detonation begins.

Not one notification—seventeen in the span of thirty seconds. Text messages, emails, news alerts, all arriving with the coordinated chaos of a bomb whose timer just reached zero.

Maya: Call me NOW

Helena: Don't read anything online. I'm coming over.

Landon: We're handling this. Do not engage.

I open my news app before I can stop myself, before the rational part of my brain can override the instinct that says knowing is always better than not knowing. This time, the rational part was right.

EXCLUSIVE: Foundation Director's Baby Timeline Raises Questions

CelebGossip Daily investigative report by Aiden Wolfe

My blood turns to ice.

Not anonymous this time. Not "sources close to the family" or "editorial staff contributions." Bylined. His name right there under the headline like a signature on a declaration of war.

He's stepped out of the shadows.

The article is devastating in its construction—technically defensible while building an unmistakable implication. Conception dates conflated with announcement dates.

A photo of me laughing with Dr. Marcus Chen at a medical ethics conference, cropped to remove three other colleagues from our table. An Instagram comment—"Great seeing you in Boston"—reframed from professional courtesy into evidence of an affair.

‘The Wolfes have built their foundation on a narrative of redemption and reconciliation. But if conception occurred during their public separation, questions arise about the foundation's ethical transparency—and about whose redemption story is really being told.’

Eight more paragraphs. Timeline charts. Instagram screenshots. Conference attendance records. Everything arranged with the methodical precision of someone who's been assembling ammunition for months.

Professional. Detailed. Designed to look researched because looking researched is what makes propaganda believable.

And signed by Aiden Wolfe like he's proud of what he's built.

My phone rings. Gerald Torres—one of the donors we thought we'd salvaged.

"Jocelyn, I just…"

"It's not true."

My voice comes out steadier than my hands, which are shaking hard enough to rattle the phone against my ear.

"The timeline is deliberately misleading. I was sixteen weeks when we announced, which means conception was in December, after reconciliation began. The article conflates announcement date with conception date to manufacture a gap that doesn't exist."

"But the Boston conference…"

"Was a professional symposium with fifty attendees. Dr. Chen is a friend from grad school, married with three children. The photo is cropped to remove the group we were sitting with."

Silence. Then: "I want to believe you, but this article has footnotes. It looks researched."

"It's designed to look researched. That's exactly how it works."

"I need to put my quarterly contribution on hold. Just until this is resolved."

"Gerald, what—"

"I'm sorry, but you have to understand."

The line goes dead.

Three more donors call in the next fifteen minutes. All variations of the same script—putting contributions on hold, concerns about ethics, need time to assess.

Each call a blade. Each polite withdrawal another program losing funding, another family losing services, another piece of the foundation falling away because Aiden Wolfe published lies under his own name and people decided footnotes equal truth.

I try to stand, make it to the edge of the bed before the room tilts.

Not dizziness—something worse. Like the floor has become liquid, like gravity has decided I'm optional. Something inside my chest is compressing, making it hard to think past the roaring in my ears.

I sit down hard, reach for the blood pressure monitor with hands that won't cooperate.

The cuff tightens. The numbers appear.

152/98.

I stare at them. Watch them blur, sharpen, blur again. Somewhere in the rational part of my brain, the part that reads medical literature and understands risk thresholds, a voice says very clearly: That's stroke territory.

My phone rings. Zayden's name.

I try to answer but my fingers slip. The phone bounces on the mattress, his voice coming through the speaker like a transmission from a world I'm separating from.

"Joss? Maya just told me about the article. I'm coming home right now. Stay where you are. Ten minutes."

Ten minutes.

I lie back because sitting upright has become a negotiation my body is losing. The ceiling swims above me. The baby kicks—strong, insistent, a small foot or fist pressing against the wall of a body that's failing to protect it.

I place both hands on my belly. Breathe. Count to four. My watch vibrates—heart rate 118 bpm and climbing.

The bedroom door crashes open. Zayden, breathless, still in his coat, face drained of color.

"Blood pressure," he says, already reaching for the monitor.

"Already checked. 152 over 98."

"When?"

"Four minutes ago."

He's on the phone immediately. "Dr. Reeves—yes, emergency. 152 over 98. She's conscious but—" He listens. Nods. "Okay. We're leaving now."

He hangs up. Looks at me.

"Emergency appointment. Twenty minutes."

"The board meeting…"

"Fuck the board meeting." He says it without heat, without drama. Just a man who's done a calculation and arrived at the only answer that matters. "Your blood pressure is in emergency territory. The board can wait. Your life can't."

He helps me stand. Wraps my coat around my shoulders. I'm still in pajamas but neither of us comments. The elevator ride is silent except for my breathing—too fast, too shallow—and Zayden's hand on my knee, grounding me to something solid.

Dr. Reeves doesn't soften it.

"Complete bed rest. Effective immediately."

She says it looking at both of us, making sure neither of us can later claim they misunderstood.

"Zero work stress. No phone calls about foundation business, no emergency meetings, no 'just checking email for five minutes.' At 152/98, she's one spike away from hospitalization."

"How long?" Zayden asks.

"Until delivery. Or until her blood pressure stabilizes enough that I'm confident she won't seize."

She turns to me.

"This isn't modified bed rest anymore, Jocelyn. This is complete removal from anything that could trigger another spike. Another major stress event could cause eclampsia, stroke, or preterm labor."

The words land like stones dropped into deep water—each one sinking, pulling everything else down with it.

"Someone needs to take the foundation completely off her plate," Dr. Reeves continues. "Not reduce it. Not modify it. Remove it."

"I understand," Zayden says.

"Do you? Because in my experience, high-achieving couples hear 'bed rest' and think 'modified work schedule.' This isn't modified. This is complete."

The drive home is quiet. Zayden carries me upstairs—actually carries me, one arm under my knees, the other against my back, because climbing seven flights is no longer something my body can negotiate.

He sets me on the bed, takes my phone and turns it off completely. Sets it across the room.

"Sleep," he says. "I'll handle everything else."

"You can't handle everything."

"Watch me." He sits beside me, hand on my belly where the baby kicks against his palm. "I'm taking leave from the foundation. Effective immediately. Maya handles operations. Landon handles legal. Helena handles donor communications. I handle you."

"The public will think you're running."

"Let them think whatever they need to." His voice is quiet, certain. "Reputation is what strangers think of you. It's not real." His hand presses gently against the curve of my stomach. "This is real. You're real. And I'm not risking what's real to protect what's imaginary."

I close my eyes because keeping them open takes energy I no longer possess.

Aiden stepped out of the shadows, signed his name to lies, and it worked. Donors believed him. My body broke under the weight of it. And now I'm lying in bed while the foundation I built from nothing operates without me for the first time in its existence.

He won today.

But the baby kicks again—strong, defiant, alive despite everything being thrown at the body protecting it.

And I think: Not yet. You haven't won yet.