My Boss, My Babydaddy

Chapter 31

Jocelyn’s POV

Three years of marriage, and I still get that flutter when Zayden walks into the kitchen wearing his charcoal suit, the one that makes his shoulders look impossibly broad.

"Morning, beautiful." He kisses the top of my head while reaching for the coffee I've already poured. Black, no sugar, the way he's taken it every morning since I've known him.

Mia doesn't look up from her drawing. Tigers again. Always tigers.

But healthy tigers now, prowling through jungles instead of the skeletal, sad-eyed creatures she used to sketch during treatment. Her dark curls are wild around her face, and there's a smudge of orange crayon on her cheek.

"Dad, do tigers eat pancakes?" she asks without preamble.

"Only on Saturdays." Zayden ruffles her hair. "And only when their moms make them chocolate chip ones."

"It's Thursday."

"Then no pancakes for tigers. Strictly a weekend thing."

She giggles, and the sound fills our kitchen with the kind of warmth that used to feel impossible. The foundation is thriving. My photography business finally has a waitlist. Mia's last checkup was perfect—completely clear, three years in remission.

Everything should feel perfect.

Except Zayden's smile doesn't quite reach his eyes this morning. Hasn't for weeks, actually.

He's been distant. Not cold exactly, just... somewhere else. His mind working through problems he doesn't share. I'll catch him staring at nothing, jaw tight, fingers drumming that pattern on the table that means he's calculating something.

"Big day?" I ask, refilling his coffee.

"The Henderson meeting." His tone is clipped, professional. The voice he uses for business, not for me. "Finally closing this deal."

Right, the Henderson deal. He's been working on it for a month now—late nights in his study, phone calls that make him frown, meetings that run long. I've tried not to take it personally when he comes to bed after I'm already asleep, when his kisses feel perfunctory instead of passionate.

It's just work stress, just this one meeting. Once it's done, he'll come back to me. Back to us.

"You'll do great," I say, meaning it.

He nods, but he's already somewhere else. Already checking his watch, his phone, his mental checklist of things that matter more than breakfast with his family.

Mia doesn't notice. She's adding stripes to her tiger, tongue poking out in concentration the way it always does when she's focused.

"I'll pick her up from school," I offer.

"I can do it." But his tone says he won't remember, says he'll get caught up in whatever's consuming him and I'll end up getting the call from the school secretary asking where we are.

"I've got it." I keep my voice light, easy. Not accusatory.

He kisses me goodbye—quick, distracted. The kind of kiss that feels like obligation instead of want.

The door closes behind him, and I'm left standing in our kitchen that suddenly feels too quiet. Too empty despite Mia humming at the table.

By noon, I've talked myself into a plan.

He's stressed, overworked. He’s carrying too much alone because that's what Zayden does—takes on the weight of the world and pretends it doesn't crush him.

What he needs is a reminder that he's not alone, that I'm here, that we're still us underneath all the pressure and distance.

The deli on Fifth still makes his favorite sandwich—pastrami on rye, extra pickles, that specific deli mustard he's particular about. I order it with a side of those chips he pretends he doesn't like but always finishes.

The walk to Wolfe Tower feels purposeful, optimistic. I'm going to surprise my husband, remind him why he married me, maybe steal a kiss in his office before his afternoon meetings start.

The lobby is its usual controlled chaos. Patricia waves from reception, phone pressed to her ear. The elevators are crowded with people who look important and expensive.

Twenty-fifth floor. The doors open on sleek glass and steel, the kind of architectural intimidation that screams success.

Zayden's corner office is at the end of the hall, visible through transparent walls that are supposed to suggest transparency but really just make everything feel exposed.

I'm halfway down the corridor when I hear voices.

My steps slow. Through the glass, I can see Zayden standing behind his desk, and someone else—a woman, maybe, hard to tell from this angle—sitting across from him.

Work meeting, my brain supplies. Turn around, don't interrupt, let him handle business.

But something in his posture stops me. The rigid set of his shoulders. The way his hands are braced on the desk like he's holding himself upright through force of will alone.

I move closer, quiet, the lunch bag crinkles softly in my grip.

"—wouldn't be here if I had another choice." The woman's voice carries through the not-quite-soundproof glass. "You have to understand that."

She’s not a business partner. The tone is too personal, too raw.

"I understand." Zayden's voice is controlled. Dangerous. "But showing up here, bringing him without warning…"

Him? Who's him?

I edge closer to the door. Through the gap where it's not quite closed, I can see more now. The woman in the visitor's chair, blonde and elegant.

And beside her, a boy. Dark-haired. Maybe eight or nine years old. His small hands gripping the arms of his chair like he's trying to disappear into the leather.

"He deserves to know his father." The woman's voice cracks. Actually cracks, like she's fighting tears. "I'm dying, Zayden. Stage four pancreatic cancer. Six months, maybe less. And I can't leave him alone without giving him this. Without giving him you."

My heart stops.

The sandwich bag slips from my fingers. Hits the floor with a sound that seems impossibly loud in the carpeted hallway.

Through the glass, I watch Zayden's face. Watch him look at this boy with an expression I've never seen before. Not surprise, not confusion.

Recognition. Guilt.

The terrible knowledge of a secret kept too long.

"His name is Eli," the woman continues. "He's eight years old. And he's yours."