Jocelyn
The city lights blur into streaks of gold and red through the taxi window. My hand rests on my stomach, a useless, instinctive gesture. The penthouse door clicking shut behind me was the sound of an amputation. Eight years of my life, severed.
I pull out my phone. My fingers feel clumsy, disconnected from my brain. I scroll through my contacts, past names that feel like they belong to a stranger’s life. Then I find him. Julian Vance.
My grandfather’s voice echoes in my memory. ‘If you are ever in a storm you cannot navigate, call Julian. He is the only man I’ve ever known who can see the rocks beneath the waves.’
I press the call button before I can lose my nerve.
He answers on the second ring.
“Julian Vance.” His voice is exactly as I remember it. Calm, deep, and unhurried. The sound of absolute control.
“Julian, it’s Jocelyn Foster.” I say my own name. It feels both foreign and right.
“I know,” he says. There’s no surprise in his tone. “I’ve been waiting for this call. Are you safe?”
My breath catches. “I am. For now. I need to see you.”
“I’m at the old Rivington office. Your grandfather kept it off the official books. No one knows it exists. Can you get here?”
“Send me the address.”
“It’s already on its way to your phone. The cabbie will know the building. Take the service elevator to the top floor. I’ll be waiting.”
The line goes dead. He didn’t ask what was wrong. He already knew something was.
The office is a time capsule. Rich mahogany, the scent of old leather and paper, a wall of books that have actually been read. It smells like my grandfather. It smells like stability.
Julian stands from behind a large desk as I enter. He is as impeccable as ever, his grey hair perfectly cut, his dark suit tailored with military precision. He looks like a hawk in winter, all sharp angles and sharper intelligence. His eyes, a pale, piercing blue, miss nothing.
“He did it, then,” Julian says. It’s not a question.
“He did.” My voice is thin.
“Sit down, Jocelyn.” He gestures to the leather chair opposite his desk. “And tell me everything.”
I do. The words tumble out, a torrent of betrayal and pain. The forged certificate. The other wife, Whitney. Zayn’s coldness. The ten-million-dollar insult on the coffee table. I tell him everything except the one secret I’m holding tight in my womb. That is mine alone.
He listens without interruption, his expression unchanging, his hands steepled on the desk. When I’m finished, a heavy silence fills the room.
“I warned your grandfather,” he finally says, his voice a low rumble of vindication. “I told him Maddox was a predator in a bespoke suit.”
“My grandfather liked him.”
“Your grandfather saw a reflection of his own ruthless ambition,” Julian corrects gently. “He failed to see that Zayn Maddox’s loyalty extends only to himself.”
A tear I didn’t know was there escapes and traces a cold path down my cheek. I wipe it away angrily.
“I don’t have time for tears,” I say.
“No,” Julian agrees, a flicker of approval in his eyes. “You don’t. You have time for strategy. He has made a critical error.”
“By telling me the truth?”
“By underestimating you. He thinks he’s discarded a wife. He has no idea he’s created an adversary with three hundred and forty-seven million dollars’ worth of resources.”
He stands and walks to a wet bar in the corner, pouring two glasses of water. He hands one to me. “First thing. You are not to go back to that penthouse. Not for clothes, not for anything. It is compromised territory.”
“Where do I go?”
“Your grandfather established a private residence years ago. A contingency. A safe house with a skyline view. It’s in the Carlisle Tower, registered to a shell corporation. It has its own staff, its own security, and it is impenetrable. I had it prepared for your arrival this afternoon.”
I stare at him. “You knew?”
“I hoped I was wrong,” he says, his gaze softening for a fraction of a second. “Your grandfather and I planned for the worst. It seems the worst has arrived. The keys and access cards are in this envelope.”
He slides a thick, grey envelope across the desk. It reminds me of the one from Mr. Davies. This one feels like a lifeline, not a death sentence.
“Now, for the money,” he says, his voice turning sharp and clinical again. “Davies is a good probate lawyer, but he’s a tortoise. We need to be a wildfire. By morning, I want every liquid asset that is legally yours moved, not just to a new account, but through a labyrinth.”
“A labyrinth?”
“Blind trusts, holding companies layered on top of each other, accounts in nations that do not cooperate with extradition requests. We will make your fortune a ghost. It will exist, it will be yours to command, but no one will be able to find it, let alone touch it.”
“Zayn didn’t even seem to care about the money,” I whisper, the memory of his cold dismissal still a fresh wound. “He told me to take it.”
Julian allows a small, cold smile. “He thinks it’s a consolation prize. He doesn’t understand that the Foster Legacy is not just wealth. It is power. Deep, structural power. We are going to teach him the difference.”
“How?”
“We start by severing every last tie. We change your digital footprint, your phone numbers, your entire financial identity. We create a fortress, and from within it, we will plan our first move.”
He takes me to the Carlisle himself. The apartment is breathtaking, a palace in the sky that takes up an entire floor. It’s furnished with an elegant, impersonal style, nothing like the home I shared with Zayn. It’s not a home. It’s a base of operations.
Julian walks me through the security systems, the encrypted communication lines he’s already had installed, the panic rooms.
“The staff here reports only to me,” he says, standing by the door. “You are safe here, Jocelyn. Utterly and completely.”
“Thank you, Julian.” The words feel inadequate.
“Your grandfather loved you more than his entire empire,” he says softly. “He would want me to protect you both. Get some rest. The war begins at dawn.”
He leaves, and the silence that descends is different from the one in the penthouse. That was the silence of emptiness. This is the silence of anticipation.
I walk to the vast windows. The view is higher here, the city spread out even wider. From the penthouse, I looked down on the world with him, as a queen surveying her kingdom. From here, I see it for what it is. A chessboard.
My hand finds my stomach again. The dull ache in my heart is still there, a constant throb of what I’ve lost. But beneath it, a new feeling takes root. A cold, hard resolve.
Zayn wanted me to go. He wanted me to disappear.
He has no idea what he has just unleashed.
