My Boss, My Babydaddy

Chapter 103

Jocelyn's POV

The memo goes out on Friday.

SUBJECT: Updated Security Protocol — Building Access Restriction

Effective immediately, Aiden Wolfe's building access has been revoked pending board review of documented security violations and criminal conspiracy charges filed with local law enforcement.

All staff are instructed to report any unauthorized entry attempts to Security Director David Chen immediately. This measure is implemented in accordance with foundation safety protocols and is not subject to individual board member override.

I watch the email populate across the foundation's system. Every staff member, every coordinator, every volunteer with a foundation email address—all receiving simultaneous notification that the man who's been walking through our hallways like he owned them is no longer welcome inside.

My phone buzzes within ninety seconds.

Maya: You actually did it.

Landon: Memo is legally sound. I've forwarded to law enforcement as part of the filing.

David: Security team briefed. Front desk has his photo flagged. He doesn't get past the lobby.

Then, predictably, Marcus: This is unacceptable. Emergency board call in thirty minutes.

I show Zayden the message. He reads it, almost smiles.

"Let him complain. We have documentation."

The emergency board call convenes at 9:37 AM. Seven board members on video conference, expressions ranging from concerned to outraged.

Marcus leads the charge before anyone else can speak.

"Banning someone without a full board vote sets a dangerous precedent. Regardless of the allegations…"

"The ban follows documented security violations and criminal conspiracy charges," Zayden says, voice calm and controlled. "Filed with law enforcement forty-eight hours ago after comprehensive legal review."

"Alleged violations." Marcus's tone sharpens. "Based on interpretations of workplace interaction filtered through," he pauses, choosing his words with the precision of someone who's been warned about liability, "heightened circumstances."

He's learned not to say "pregnancy" directly. Doesn't matter—everyone hears what he's not saying.

"The violations are documented by multiple witnesses, security footage, and third-party legal counsel," I say. "Including your own participation in providing unauthorized building access on four documented occasions."

Marcus's face flushes. "I've already explained…"

"Your explanations are documented in the criminal filing as evidence of conspiracy to facilitate harassment."

Landon's voice cuts through the speaker with the surgical precision of a man who files motions the way other people file taxes.

"Marcus, I'd strongly recommend consulting your own attorney before this call continues."

Silence on the conference line. The kind of silence that follows when someone realizes the ground beneath them has shifted.

Patricia Chen speaks next. Careful, measured, carrying the authority of twenty years on nonprofit boards.

"I've reviewed the documentation Landon provided this morning. The evidence of coordination is substantial. Security footage, witness statements, overheard conversations with corroborating testimony from four individuals."

She looks directly at the camera. "This isn't about normal workplace tension. This is a documented criminal conspiracy."

"The conspiracy charges include systematic harassment of a pregnant woman," Landon adds. "Facilitated by unauthorized building access that was deliberately concealed from executive leadership. The access ban is standard protective protocol following legal filing."

Marcus tries again. "The optics…"

"The optics are that we documented every violation, gave multiple opportunities to stop, followed proper legal channels, and implemented restrictions only after criminal charges were filed."

I keep my voice steady, each word placed like a brick in a wall Marcus can't knock down. "That's not reactionary. That's methodical."

James Rodriguez unmutes. "I move to support the security restriction pending legal resolution. All in favor?"

Four hands raise immediately. Patricia Chen. James Rodriguez. Two newer members who've been watching this unfold with increasing alarm.

Marcus sits rigid, jaw tight, not voting.

Two abstentions—board members who aren't ready to pick a side but aren't willing to fight for Marcus's either.

"Motion carries," James says. "The access restriction stands."

Marcus stays on the line after others disconnect. "Zayden, we need to talk. Privately."

"Of course. Four PM in my office. Landon will be present."

"This should be handled within the family."

"Family doesn't conspire to destroy family organizations." Zayden's voice drops to a dangerous quiet. "Four PM. Bring your attorney if you're smart."

The call ends.

I sit in the silence that follows, processing the weight of what just happened. We banned Aiden Wolfe from a building bearing his own surname.

Filed criminal conspiracy charges against him with law enforcement. Got board approval despite Marcus's opposition. Created a documented, legal, defensible barrier between our family and the man systematically trying to destroy it.

First offensive move in weeks of pure defense.

"You okay?" Zayden asks.

"Yes." And I mean it—completely, without qualification. "For the first time since this started, I feel like we're actually fighting back instead of just absorbing."

The knock comes tentative, small-knuckled, the unmistakable percussion of a six-year-old.

"Mama!"

Mia bursts through the door before Helena can stop her, drawing clutched in both hands, vibrating with the urgency of someone who's been keeping a secret all morning and can't hold it another second.

"Baby, what are you doing here?" I glance at Helena.

"Early dismissal. I picked her up, thought she could hang out in the break room." Helena's expression is apologetic. "She insisted on showing you something. I couldn't hold her back without physically restraining her, and she bites when cornered."

"I don't bite!" Mia protests, then considers. "Only a little."

She climbs into my lap. The drawing unfurls between us—crayon on construction paper, the particular palette of a child who believes magenta and lime green are complementary colors.

It's our family. The foundation building in the background, recognizable by the triangle roof Mia always gives it despite the actual building being flat-topped. Stick figures in front: me with curly hair, Zayden tall and broad-shouldered, Mia with her signature wild curls.

And on the wall of the building—drawn in careful detail, each letter deliberate—the words: WOLF HARTWELL FONDASHUN. WE HELP PEPLE.

"I want to put it on your wall," Mia announces. "Right here, so everyone who comes to your office sees it."

"Baby, that's…"

"Mrs. Calloway says art in workplaces improves moral." She says moral instead of morale with the absolute certainty of someone who doesn't know the word but knows the concept. "And your moral could use improving."

Zayden makes a strangled sound that might be a laugh.

I look at the drawing. At the foundation rendered in a six-year-old's understanding of architecture—simple, colorful, built for the specific purpose of helping people. No board politics. No donor anxiety. No conspiracy charges or security protocols or criminal filings.

Just a building where people help people. The way Mia sees it. The way it was always supposed to be.

"You know what?" I stand, Mia on my hip, crossing to the wall beside my desk where her other drawings hang. "You're absolutely right. This office needs better art."

I tape it center-wall, flanked by purple tigers and rainbow houses and every other piece of evidence that somewhere beyond the legal filings and board votes and security cameras, a child still believes her parents are building something good.

"There." Mia nods with satisfaction. "Now people will know."

"Know what, baby?"

"That we help people." She says it like it's obvious, like the mission statement she can't spell is the only fact that matters. "That's what you do, right? You and Daddy help people who need it."

My throat closes. I pull her tight. "Yeah, baby. That's exactly what we do."

After Helena takes Mia to the break room for snacks, I stand looking at the wall. Criminal conspiracy charges filed this morning. Board vote won. Security restrictions implemented. Aiden banned.

And in the center of all that warfare, a six-year-old's drawing that reads WOLF HARTWELL FONDASHUN. WE HELP PEPLE.

The misspelling makes my eyes sting.

Because she's right. Underneath the legal battles and the security footage and the crisis management—underneath all of it—that's still what we do.

What we've always done. What no amount of coordinated attack can change as long as we keep showing up.

We help people.

Mia knows it. The eight hundred families we serve know it.

And now, for the first time in weeks, the people trying to destroy us know something too.

We're done absorbing. We're fighting back.