My Overseer, My Progenitor

POV Jocelyn

“Shit, shit, SHIT—”

The words tear from my throat like a battle cry. My heel catches the elevator threshold like it’s personally offended by my existence.

I’m airborne for exactly two seconds. Papers explode from my death grip like the world’s saddest confetti. My coffee launches across pristine marble flooring that probably costs more per square foot than I make in a month.

My dignity? Already dead and buried six feet under.

I hit that floor like a meteor strike, and somewhere in the distance, I swear I hear the universe laughing.

“Smooth, Jocelyn. Real fucking smooth.”

I’m scrambling on hands and knees, chasing scattered documents across marble that’s so polished I can see my own mortified expression reflected back at me.

This is it. This is how I lose the only job that could save Mia’s life—face-first on the 43rd floor of some corporate palace that screams money and intimidation from every surface.

“Ma’am, are you—”

“I’m fine!” The words snap out harder than I intended, but panic makes me sharp-edged.

The secretary behind the massive desk looks like she’d rather call security than acknowledge my existence. Her nameplate gleams in gold letters: Patricia.

“Just… me versus physics. Physics won, I guess.” I’m hauling myself upright, while my hands won’t stop shaking, and it has nothing to do with the fall.

Twenty-six hours at the hospital watching your six-year-old fight cancer will do that to you. Sleep becomes optional when your kid’s life hangs in the balance.

Patricia’s mouth twists like she’s tasting something particularly unpleasant. “Mr. Wolfe doesn’t tolerate—”

“Disruptions. Crystal clear.” I straighten up, trying to look like a functioning adult instead of a tornado survivor.

The mantra starts looping in my head like a broken record: ‘Don’t mess this up, Jocelyn. You can’t afford to.’

Triple salary.

The words dance in my vision like a mirage.

Enough for Mia’s treatment. Enough for the experimental therapy her doctors mentioned in hushed tones. Enough to maybe—maybe—keep my baby alive and healthy.

If I don’t faceplant again in the next five minutes.

“You’re the new assistant?” Patricia’s voice could freeze hell over and charge admission.

“That’s me. Professional disaster, at your service.” The sarcasm slips out before I can stop it, but I’m past caring.

A door slams behind Patricia’s desk, and the sound ricochets through the space like a gunshot.

Then he walks out, like he owns the world.

Broad shoulders that strain against a charcoal suit, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that should be illegal. Hair that’s somewhere between gold and ash, perfectly tousled in that way that takes either professional styling or incredible genetics.

Phone pressed to his ear, voice cutting through the air like a blade: “I don’t give a damn what Shanghai thinks. Fire them. All of them. I want new contractors by morning.”

Then he turns and those eyes hit me like a freight train carrying a cargo load of holy shit.

Green like sea surface, like emeralds, like every cliché poets use when they’re trying to describe something indescribable. They’re sharp enough to cut glass and focused enough to dissect my soul in under three seconds.

Jesus Christ, he's beautiful in that dangerous, untouchable way that makes smart girls do monumentally stupid things.

There's something about him. Something that pulls at the edges of my memory like a half-forgotten dream. I know this face or maybe I've imagined it a thousand times.

The way he carries himself, that particular tilt of his head, even his presence feels achingly familiar.

The recognition hits like déjà vu mixed with pure, undiluted want.

“You’re late.” He ends his call with military precision, sliding the phone into his pocket without breaking eye contact.

“Sorry, traffic was—”

“I don’t want excuses. I want results and discipline.”

His voice hits different. Low, commanding, with an undertone that sends weird shivers down my spine for reasons I absolutely cannot and will not analyze right now.

“Right. Results and discipline. Got it.” My own voice sounds foreign, breathless in a way that makes me want to kick myself.

He’s already moving, all purpose and controlled energy. “Conference room. Cunningham files. Twenty minutes.”

“Which Cunningham files?”

He stops. Pivots. Those green eyes narrow to laser points that could probably bore holes through steel.

“The ones you should have reviewed instead of whatever kept you looking like you went ten rounds with a blender and lost spectacularly.”

Ouch. Direct hit to the ego.

“I was at the hospital—”

“Personal problems stay personal. This is business.”

Cold bastard. Beautiful, intimidating, completely heartless bastard.

The next eight hours are psychological torture disguised as employment.

Every order delivered like I’m an incompetent child who can’t be trusted with safety scissors. He criticizes my filing system, my coffee-making skills, my ability to transfer calls without hanging up on people.

Nothing I do meets his standards, which apparently exist somewhere in the stratosphere.

But I need this job. Mia needs this job.

So I swallow my pride, along with several creative profanities, and do whatever Zayden Wolfe demands. Even when my body keeps freaking out around him.

Something about him sets my nerves on fire, but I can’t figure out why.

Maybe it’s just intimidation. Rich, powerful men have that effect, right? The whole alpha predator thing that makes normal humans want to either flee or submit. Basic biology. Except it doesn’t feel basic. It feels complicated and messy and terrifying.

At exactly five o’clock, I bolt from that building like it’s on fire and I’m the last person to notice.