My Boss, My Babydaddy

Chapter 66

Zayden’s POV

I'm reviewing construction permits for the Queens facility when Jocelyn walks into my office and drops her phone on my desk like it's evidence in a trial.

"You need to see this," she says. No greeting, no preamble. Her voice is tight.

I glance up. She's pale, jaw set in that way that means she's trying not to let something get to her but failing.

"What is it?"

"Just read."

I pick up the phone. The screen shows a Vogue lifestyle feature: "Vivienne Ashford Returns: On Fashion, Reinvention, and Leaving Toxic Love Behind."

Fuck.

The article is exactly what I'd expect from Vivienne—all carefully curated vulnerability and strategic revelation. Photos of her in her atelier, surrounded by fabric swatches and sketches. Looking ethereal and wounded in that practiced way she's perfected over the years.

But it's the quotes that make my jaw clench:

"I had to walk away from a relationship that looked perfect from the outside but felt unsafe on the inside. When you're with someone who sees love as a transaction, who treats emotion like weakness... you lose yourself. I lost myself for three years."

The journalist asks if she's referring to her engagement to "business magnate Zayden Wolfe."

"I don't want to name names. But I will say this: some men collect beautiful things—art, cars, women. They don't know the difference between possession and partnership. I'm grateful I got out before I became another trophy in someone's collection."

I set the phone down carefully. Very carefully. Because the alternative is throwing it across the room.

"When did this drop?" I ask.

"This morning. Maya sent it to me." Jocelyn's watching my face. "Is any of it true?"

"Which part? That I was engaged to Vivienne Ashford? Yes. That I treated her like a trophy? That's creative revisionism."

"Zay…"

"She left me because I wouldn't give her access to Wolfe Industries capital to launch her fashion line."

The words come out harder than I intend.

"Three years together, and the minute I said no to mixing business and personal finances, she walked. Called me controlling. Accused me of not supporting her dreams."

Jocelyn sits in the chair across from me. "So the 'unsafe relationship' angle is…"

"Bullshit." I run my hand through my hair. "Complete fabrication. We fought, sure. I was difficult, absolutely. But unsafe? I never laid a hand on her. Never threatened her. The worst I did was refuse to bankroll her startup with family money."

"Why is she doing this now?"

I pull up Vivienne's Instagram on my computer. Her follower count has tripled in the last month. Her bio now includes "Founder & Creative Director, Ashford Atelier–Launching Spring 2027."

"She's relaunching her brand," I say, turning the screen toward Jocelyn. "And nothing sells fashion like a redemption narrative. Woman escapes toxic billionaire, finds herself, builds empire through her own strength. It's catnip for her target demographic."

"That's calculated."

"That's Vivienne." I close the browser. "Everything's a strategy. Everything's an angle. I should've seen it coming the second we agreed to the documentary. The media attention around the foundation makes me relevant again, and she's capitalizing on it."

Jocelyn's quiet for a moment, studying me. "You're not worried this could hurt the foundation?"

"Should I be?"

"People might believe her. Might think you're the same man she's describing."

I lean back in my chair, considering. She's right—reputation matters in nonprofit work. Donors care about character. One accusation of toxic behavior, even unfounded, could tank our funding.

"What do you want to do?" Jocelyn asks.

"Ignore it. Engaging gives her more ammunition. She wants a reaction—either denial she can twist or silence she can interpret as guilt. We give her nothing."

"Landon might disagree."

"Then Landon can call me." I reach for her hand across the desk. "You believe me, right? About what actually happened?"

Her fingers lace through mine. "Of course I believe you. I've lived with you for three years, I know the difference between control and abuse. You're demanding, stubborn, occasionally insufferable. But you're not what she's describing."

The tension in my chest loosens slightly. "Thank you."

"However," she continues, "we should prepare for this to get uglier. If Vivienne's positioning herself as some kind of survivor, other people might…"

"Aiden," I say flatly.

Jocelyn's expression shifts. "Your brother?"

"Half-brother." The distinction matters. "We share Harrison's DNA and absolutely nothing else. He's been radio silent for five years, but if there's media attention and a chance to make me look bad? He'll surface."

"What's his angle?"

I consider how much to explain. Jocelyn knows the basics—that I have a half-brother from one of Harrison's affairs, that we're estranged. But the details are uglier than I've shared.

"Aiden thinks I stole his inheritance," I say carefully. "When Harrison died, the will left everything to me. Nothing to Aiden except a trust he can't access until he's forty. He's thirty-three now, and he's been bitter about it for years."

"Did Harrison explain why?"

"In the will, yes. Said Aiden 'lacked the discipline and character to steward the Wolfe legacy.'" I can still hear my father's voice delivering that particular cruelty from beyond the grave. "Which is Harrison-speak for 'you're a disappointment.'"

Jocelyn winces. "That's brutal."

"That was Harrison."

I release her hand, stand, move to the window. Brooklyn spreads below us—our chosen home, our real life.

"Aiden blamed me instead of our father. Sent me letters for months after the funeral. Accusations, threats, demands. I had my lawyers send cease and desist orders. Haven't heard from him since."

"But you think he'll come back now."

"I think he's exactly the type to feed information to Vivienne or journalists. Paint me as some corrupt mogul who cheated him out of his birthright. It fits the narrative she's building."

"So we have your ex-fiancée calling you toxic and potentially your estranged brother painting you as a thief." Jocelyn joins me at the window. "This documentary is looking better every minute."

Despite everything, I smile. "Still think we made the right choice?"

"I think we're about to find out."

My phone buzzes. Text from Landon: Saw the Vogue piece. We need to talk strategy.

"Speak of the devil," I mutter, showing Jocelyn the screen.

"Want me to sit in?"

"Please."

Twenty minutes later, we're in the conference room with Landon, who's pulled up not just the Vogue article but a dozen related social media posts.

"It's spreading," he says without preamble. "Fashion influencers are sharing it. Some feminist blogs are already writing think pieces about power dynamics in high-society relationships."

"Recommendations?" I ask.

"Counter-narrative. We don't engage with Vivienne directly."

Landon pulls up a document.

"But we get ahead of this. The documentary's our opportunity—show who you actually are now. The foundation work, the marriage to Jocelyn, the life you built after walking away from corporate empire."

"Using our real story to combat her fake one," Jocelyn says.

"Exactly. Let Rachel and her team document the truth. When the documentary airs, people will see the difference between Vivienne's carefully curated victim narrative and your actual character."

"What about Aiden?" I ask.

Landon's expression darkens. "That's trickier. If he surfaces with claims about inheritance theft, that's legal territory. We'd need to be prepared with documentation—the will, the trust details, maybe Harrison's reasoning."

"I'm not dragging my dead father's character assassination of his own son into public view," I say firmly.

"Even if it protects you?"

"Especially then. Aiden's an asshole, but he didn't deserve what Harrison did to him. I won't make it worse."

Jocelyn squeezes my hand under the table. Landon makes notes.

"All right. We prepare for worst-case but hope it doesn't come to that. I'll brief Rachel on potential complications. Make sure the documentary team knows there might be contested narratives floating around."

After he leaves, Jocelyn and I sit in the quiet conference room.

"You okay?" she asks.

"Define okay."

"Emotionally processed and at peace with your past."

I almost laugh. "Then no. Absolutely not."

"Good. Me neither." She leans her head on my shoulder. "We can be not-okay together."

"Deal."