My Boss, My Babydaddy

Chapter 50

Zayden’s POV

The penthouse feels like a mausoleum at night.

Eli's been in his room since we got back from the funeral six hours ago, door closed, lights off. Complete silence that's somehow louder than screaming.

I've checked on him twice. Both times he was curled on his bed, facing the wall, clutching that tiger plush like it's the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.

"He needs space," Jocelyn said the second time I knocked. She's still here—hasn't left since the cemetery, sleeping on the couch, maintaining careful distance from me while somehow being present for Eli.

"He needs something." I stare at his closed door. "I just don't know what."

"Time. Grief. Permission to fall apart." She brings me coffee I don't want. "He's eight. His mother just died. There's no playbook for this."

At midnight, I hear it—crashing, something heavy hitting the wall. The sound of destruction happening in careful, deliberate increments.

I'm at his door in seconds. "Eli?"

No response. Another crash.

"I'm coming in."

I pull the door handle. The room looks like a war zone.

Books scattered across the floor, lamp overturned, drawings—hundreds of them—torn into pieces that cover every surface like snow made from grief and rage.

Eli stands in the center of the chaos, chest heaving, holding a framed photo of his mother. His arm is cocked back, ready to throw it against the wall with everything else.

"Don't." I step inside carefully. "That's the last photo you have of her."

"I don't care!" His voice cracks. "I don't want it! I don't want any of this!"

He hurls the frame anyway. It hits the wall, glass shattering into pieces that catch light like shrapnel.

Then he turns on me.

"This is your fault!" The accusation rips out raw and hateful. "She got sick looking for you, trying to make you care about me! If you'd just been my dad from the beginning, she wouldn't have stressed herself to death!"

The words hit like bullets, each one true, deserved, carrying weight I can't deflect.

"You're right."

"Don't just agree with me!" He moves toward me, hands clenched into fists. "Don't try to make this better with words! You can't fix this!"

"I know."

"She's dead because of you!" Tears stream down his face. "And you don't even care! You never cared about us! Just your stupid money and your perfect life without us ruining it!"

"That's not—"

"Shut up!" He's shouting now, voice breaking on sobs. "Just shut up! I hate you! I hate you for not being there! I hate you for paying her to disappear! I hate you for—"

His fist connects with my stomach. Not hard—eight-year-olds don't have much power behind their punches, but the impact isn't physical.

It's everything he's been holding back since Natasha got sick. Since he learned his father existed but didn't want him. Since the world taught him that love comes with price tags and abandonment.

He hits me again, chest this time. Then my arm.

I don't block, don't step back. Just stand there and let him rage.

"I hate you!" Another punch. "I hate you so much!"

His hits get weaker, less coordinated. Fury dissolving into something closer to desperation.

"Why didn't you want me?" The question comes out broken. "What's wrong with me that you'd rather pay money than just... be my dad?"

That's what breaks me completely.

I drop to my knees, bringing myself to his eye level. "Nothing is wrong with you. Everything is wrong with me."

"That's not an answer!"

"You're right, it's not." I reach for him slowly. He flinches but doesn't pull away. "I was scared. Selfish. Convinced that being a father required something I didn't have. So I wrote checks instead of showing up. Chose comfort over courage."

"Mom said you were just busy." His voice cracks. "That you had important work and couldn't visit but you thought about me."

The lie Natasha told to protect him from rejection destroys something in my chest.

"Your mom was kinder to me than I deserved. The truth is simpler and uglier." I meet his eyes. "I was a coward, and your mom and you paid the price for my cowardice."

Eli's fists unclench, his arms hang at his sides like puppet strings cut.

"She said you'd get better. That you just needed time to learn how to be a dad." Fresh tears spill. "But she ran out of time and now you're all I have and I don't even know if you actually want me or if you're just stuck with me!"

"I want you." The words come out fierce. "I'm terrible at showing it, but I want you. Not because I'm stuck with you, but because losing you would destroy me the same way losing Mia would."

"You don't mean that."

"I mean it more than anything I've ever said."

He stares at me, searching for lies, finding only truth that's come eight years too late.

Then he collapses into me.

Arms wrapping around my neck, body shaking with sobs that sound like they're being torn from somewhere deep and damaged. I hold him while he breaks, one hand cradling his head, the other pressing him close.

"I miss her," he chokes out. "I miss her so much."

"I know, buddy. I know."

We stay on the floor until his tears slow, until his breathing evens out. Until grief stops feeling quite so immediate and becomes something he can carry instead of something drowning him.

When he finally pulls back, his face is blotchy and swollen. "I'm sorry I hit you."

"Don't be. I deserved it."

"I didn't really hurt you."

"Maybe not with your fists." I brush hair from his forehead. "But everything you said—about not being there, about paying instead of showing up… I needed to hear that. Not because you needed to say it, but because it's the truth."

He nods, exhausted. "Can I sleep in your room? I don't want to be alone."

"Yeah. Grab your tiger."

We relocate to my room. Eli climbs into the bed that still smells faintly like Jocelyn, curling into the space she used to occupy.

I'm about to join him when my phone buzzes.

Unknown number, text message. Three words.

‘Trust no one. — SC’

Sarah Chen—agent Chen from the FBI.

The message deletes itself five seconds after I read it.

My blood turns cold.

Trust no one. The sting operation is Friday, tomorrow, and the FBI is sending encrypted warnings about trusting people.

Which means someone might be compromised. Landon? One of the other agents? Someone in Dante's organization who knows more than they should?

I look at Eli, already falling asleep clutching his tiger. At Jocelyn on the couch visible through my open door. At my family—broken, reassembled from pieces that don't quite fit—who could all die tomorrow if this operation goes wrong.

My phone buzzes again, different number, also deletes after reading.

‘Recording devices ready for pickup. 6 AM. Come alone.’

I delete the thread manually anyway, paranoia settling into my bones like frost.

Eli's breathing evens out into sleep. I sit on the edge of the bed, watching him, wondering if tomorrow will be the last time I see him peaceful.

Trust no one.

The words echo in the darkness.

Friday is six hours away. And I have no idea who I can actually trust to keep my family alive.