Passion Novels - Love & Sin Facebook ad: “Continue reading”

About this ad

Meta Ad Library ID

1762717221590261

Platforms

Facebook, Instagram, Audience Network and Messenger

Relaunches

2

EU reach

10

Niche

Parenting & Kids

How we count

Ad text

"She's not just my assistant. She's the mother of my child." Zayden Wolfe was cold, controlled, and untouchable ❄️—until he found out I was the one who disappeared after our night together… and that I'd kept his daughter a secret 💔. I didn't mean to lie. I was trying to protect her. But now? He wants answers. He wants revenge. He wants me 🖤. This wasn't supposed to be love. It was supposed to be survival. But now that the truth is out, there's no turning back 🔥. Chapter 1 - 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. Straight to the hospital. Straight to Mia. Straight to the only thing that matters. She's awake when I slip into her room, dark curls spread across the pillow like a halo. Those huge light-green eyes, that came from someone I try very hard not to think about, light up when she sees me. "Mama! Look what I drew!" Another tiger. Always tigers. This one is orange and black, with fierce eyes and powerful paws. She's been drawing them for months now, ever since she started the new treatment. Tigers in every possible configuration—sleeping tigers, prowling tigers, tigers with cubs. "Why tigers, baby?" She considers this with the seriousness that only six-year-olds can muster. "Because they're brave and strong. Like my daddy would be if I had one." My heart cracks clean in half. "Mia, sweetheart…" "I know I don't have a daddy. That's okay, Mama. But sometimes I pretend he'd be like a tiger. Powerful and protective. He'd fight the bad things and keep us safe." My hand moves to the birthmark on my collarbone without conscious thought. Hidden beneath my collar, where no one can see, that heart-shapet spot that's been there since birth. Seven years ago. A masquerade gala I had no desire to attend at first. Champagne and masks and a stranger who made me feel alive in ways I didn't know were possible. Eyes that burned like fire. Hands that worshipped every inch of my skin like I was something precious. A voice that whispered praises like a prayer while he traced that birthmark with his tongue, calling it a lucky charm. I ran before he could wake. Before I could fall harder. Before I could tell him he'd changed my life forever in ways he'd never know. Somewhere in this city, that stranger is living his life—successful, powerful, probably married with a perfect family—while his daughter draws tigers and dreams of having a father strong enough to save her. He has no idea she exists. No idea she's fighting for her life. No idea that every day she slips a little further away while he makes million-dollar deals and lives his perfect life. The stranger who gave me the most beautiful thing in my world. The stranger who never knew he had a daughter. Chapter 2 POV Jocelyn "I can do this. I can fucking do this." Day three at Wolfe Tower and I already look like death warmed over in a microwave that's been broken since 2019. My reflection in the elevator doors: a woman losing a cage match with corporate America. My inbox is a digital nightmare: 347 unread emails since yesterday evening. Each one marked with varying degrees of urgency that range from "mildly important" to "the building is literally on fire." My eyes are bloodshot from staring at Mr. Wolfe's cryptic spreadsheets until 2 AM, trying to decode notes that might as well be hieroglyphics. But here's the thing keeping me vertical: I'm still here. Still breathing. Still employed. Still getting paid while my daughter fights for her life twenty blocks away. Patricia doesn't look up when I stumble past her pristine desk like a caffeine-powered zombie. "Still here? Thought you'd be gone after Day One." The words hit like a casual slap designed to look accidental. "Surprise. Sorry to disappoint, I'm annoyingly hard to kill." She finally glances up, lips curling into that familiar sneer that I'm starting to recognize as her default expression. Like she's perpetually smelling something unpleasant, and that something is me. "We'll see." Before I can tell her exactly where to shove her attitude, Mr. Wolfe's door creaks open like a horror movie sound effect. "Ms. Hartwell." Two words. Just two fucking words, and my entire nervous system goes DEFCON 1. My spine snaps straight, shoulders tense, every muscle preparing for fresh hell. "My calendar's been misaligned since Singapore. Correct it. Then brief me on the Johnson account. Ten minutes." Door slams. I'm staring at expensive wood grain while my brain processes the impossibility. Ten minutes to fix a calendar that looks like a jigsaw puzzle made of chaos and time zones that shouldn't exist. Brief him on Johnson—which involves either a merger, hostile takeover, or both simultaneously. Mind-reading apparently comes standard with my job description. "Fantastic," I mutter, speed-walking to my desk. "Just fucking fantastic." By noon, I'm pretty sure my soul has vacated the premises. Probably in the Caribbean drinking fruity cocktails and laughing at my life choices. Twelve-page report compiled from sources that didn't exist until I created them? Check. Lunch meeting cancelled five minutes after confirmation, requiring apology calls to three executives who think I'm clinically insane? Check. Presentation reorganized for a client that materialized like corporate magic? Double check with existential crisis. Then comes the executive luncheon. Crown jewel of corporate torture. I'm balancing espresso shots like I'm defusing a bomb—which, given the collective net worth in this room, I basically am. Hands shaking from exhaustion, three energy drinks that were definitely a mistake, and constant low-level panic that's become my baseline emotional state. A boardroom full of men in suits costing more than my entire existence. They're discussing quarterly projections with the casual intensity of people planning world domination. Almost to the conference table when Patricia appears like a corporate ninja. Her shoulder bumps mine with precision screaming "accident" while being anything but. "Oops." The word drips fake innocence. Tray tilts. Time slows to that special catastrophic slow motion where your brain catalogs every way this could go wrong while being powerless to stop it. Cups clatter like a ceramic symphony of doom. Dark coffee arcs through air in perfect trajectory, defying gravity just long enough for me to appreciate its mathematical beauty. Lands squarely down some board member's ivory blazer that probably costs more than my annual salary. Silence. The horror-movie kind where everyone dies next. Every eye swings toward me like I've announced I'm carrying a bomb. Then they turn to Mr. Wolfe. He doesn't even blink or scowl. Just complete indifference, like I'm furniture that's fallen over. "Clean it up." Ice-cold voice, not cruel—that requires emotion, just indifferent. Somehow infinitely worse than screaming. I grab napkins with shaking hands, moving on autopilot while my brain processes complete social annihilation. The board member glaring like I've ruined his genetic line. Patricia watching with barely concealed glee. Mr. Wolfe's already moved on. Talking Shanghai numbers like nothing happened. Like I don't exist. Later, in the elevator, I'm jabbing the close button like it owes me money when a hand shoots through the gap with reflexes suggesting athletic training or really good genetics. Mr. Wolfe steps in and suddenly the elevator feels coffin-sized. He's close enough I can smell cedar and something indefinitely masculine that makes my brain go inappropriately fuzzy. "Do you always fold under pressure, Ms. Hartwell?" His voice is quiet. The dangerous kind of quiet that makes smart people very nervous. "I was multitasking between your four emergencies while trying not to have a complete breakdown," I snap, because self-preservation isn't my strength. He steps closer. Not threatening—something else entirely. Something that makes my pulse spike for reasons that have nothing to do with fear. "Interesting." One word. But the way he says it, looking down at me with those green eyes that seem to see straight through my skull—it's like he's cataloging something. Filing away information. The elevator dings. He steps out like we were discussing the weather instead of… whatever the hell that was. "Good night, Ms. Hartwell." That night, I'm sitting beside Mia's hospital bed, watching her draw with chunky crayons. She's focused with that intense concentration only kids achieve, tongue poking out as she perfects her tiger's stripes. Then she does something that makes me freeze completely. She drums her fingers against the bedside table. Three precise taps, pause. Three more taps, like morse code to the universe. Exactly like Zayden does during meetings when he's thinking. "Where did you learn that, baby?" She looks up, confused by the tension in my voice that I'm failing to hide. "Learn what, Mama?" "The finger thing. The tapping." Mia shrugs with casual six-year-old indifference, already turning back to her drawing. "I don't know. I just do it when I'm thinking hard." Chapter 3 POV Jocelyn The reception desk looks like a crime scene. Black ink bleeds across mahogany in accusatory pools. I'm crouched behind the disaster zone, salvaging quarterly reports that were supposed to be pristine presentations of corporate excellence, not abstract art projects. The printer upstairs had a mechanical breakdown, and somehow I drew the short straw for cleanup duty. Wet ink clings to everything—my hands, the papers, spreading across expensive wood like liquid evidence of my incompetence. "Fantastic," I mutter, attacking the mess with paper towels that prove as effective as thoughts and prayers. The elevator dings. Designer heels strike marble with military precision, but I don't look up—too focused on preventing these documents from becoming expensive toilet paper. Something heavy slams onto the desk with deliberate force. A white Chanel jacket lands directly on the wet ink papers with a splat that sounds like destiny laughing at my expense. "Handle this," commands a voice dripping with practiced superiority. "I'm late for lunch." I glance up to find perfection weaponized in designer armor. Platinum hair twisted into mathematical precision, lips painted blood-red, diamonds catching light like scattered stars. She's already pivoting away, dismissing me like hired furniture. "Wait," I call, rising slowly. The jacket absorbs ink like an expensive sponge. "Your jacket—" "What about it?" She turns back, irritation carved into porcelain features. I lift the Chanel's corner, revealing black stains spreading across pristine white fabric like spilled secrets. "It landed on wet ink." Her expression detonates from mild annoyance to thermonuclear rage. "Are you fucking kidding me?" Her composure shatters like expensive crystal hitting concrete. "You ruined it!" "I didn't ruin anything. You threw it down—" "Don't you dare blame me for your incompetence!" Her voice climbs toward frequencies that could shatter crystals. "That jacket is worth more than your pathetic salary!" The lobby transforms into a theater. Conversations die mid-syllable. Keyboards fall silent. Even the elevator seems to pause, listening. "Look, I understand you're upset—" "Upset?" She advances like a predator scenting weakness. "This is designer couture! Do you have any concept of what you've destroyed?" Heat floods my face. "I didn't destroy anything. You didn't even look before—" "Fucking pathetic excuses!" Her laugh could strip paint. "Typical service-class mentality. Blame everyone else for your failures. You'll be hearing from my dry cleaner. And probably my lawyer." Service-class. The words hit like acid and something inside me snaps with audible finality. "Service-class?" I step forward, matching her volume. "At least I work for my money instead of inheriting it from dead relatives." Gasps ripple through marble corridors. Several employees abandon all pretense of productivity, openly witnessing my professional execution. Her face cycles through shock, disbelief, then pure hatred. "How dare you speak to me like that, you freak? Do you even know who I am?" "Someone who thinks dry cleaning bills require legal representation?" The words pour out before rational thought can intervene. "Maybe try treating people with basic respect." "Miss Ashford, please—" Patricia materializes from shadows, face drained of color. "Let me handle—" "Where is Zayden?" She whirls toward executive offices, scanning for authority. "This creature needs to be removed immediately!" That's when I realized who I'm facing. Ashford. Old New York money, the kind that comes with trust funds and expectations of being treated like royalty. The name registers like a bullet finding its target. "Are you fucking insane? It's Vivienne Ashford," Patricia whispers through her teeth, gripping my arm with steel fingers. "And you just declared war on nuclear power with Mr. Wolfe's fiancée, idiot." The lobby floor seems to tilt beneath my feet. Professional suicide doesn't cover this magnitude of catastrophe. "I want her gone, Patricia. Immediately!" Vivienne's voice reaches decibels that violate city noise ordinances. "Miss Ashford, if we could just—" Patricia attempts damage control. "No excuses! She destroyed my property then had the audacity to attack me personally!" The confrontation reaches crescendo when Zayden's office door opens with deliberate force. He emerges into chaos with predatory calm, surveying the scene like a general assessing battlefield damage. His presence transforms the lobby atmosphere from circus to courtroom. "What," he says with lethal quiet, "is happening here?" Vivienne pivots toward him, fury and vindication warring across perfect features. "Zay, thank God. Your little assistant just destroyed my jacket and now she's being completely insubordinate about it." "She threw her jacket on wet ink," I interrupt, because apparently self-preservation isn't my strong suit. "I tried to warn her." "It's not just about the jacket," Vivienne interjects, her voice taking on that practiced wounded tone. "It's the attitude. The complete lack of respect. You can't have employees treating your fiancée like—" "Like what?" He steps closer to her, and something in his posture shifts. Still controlled, but with an edge that makes everyone in earshot suddenly find their work absolutely fascinating. Mr. Wolfe's gaze moves between us with calculating precision, waiting for her answer. "Like she's nobody special." "Everyone's nobody special when they're screaming at my employees over accidents." The words land like ice water. Vivienne's mouth opens and closes without sound. "Zay—" "Ms. Hartwell," he continued without breaking eye contact with his fiancée. "Send the damaged jacket to the cleaner. Company account. Bill it to executive expenses." "You don't need to—" I start. "It's handled." His tone suggests the conversation is over. Vivienne looks like she might actually combust. "Are you seriously taking her side over mine?" "I'm taking nobody's side. I'm solving a problem." He checks his watch with deliberate casualness. "Weren't you leaving?" The dismissal hits her like a slap. For a moment, I actually feel sorry for her. Almost. "Fine," she says, voice tight with barely controlled fury. "But we're discussing this later. Privately." She grabs her purse with a ruined jacket and storms toward the elevator, leaving behind a cloud of designer perfume and wounded pride. Silence blankets the office like fresh snow. Mr. Wolfe surveys the aftermath with those unreadable green eyes before focusing on me. "Ms. Hartwell." "Sir?" "Next time someone throws valuables on wet surfaces..." Something resembling amusement flickers across granite features. "Let physics teach its own lessons." He looks at me one more time and then disappears back into his office, leaving me standing among whispers and stares. Patricia finally breaks the silence. "Well, that was entertaining." "Glad my career suicide could provide you with some amusement." But as I clean up the coffee remnants, I can't shake the feeling that something just shifted. Some invisible line got crossed, and I have no idea what comes next. Three hours later, I'm still processing when Landon appears at my desk with two cups of actual good coffee. "Thought you might need this," he says, settling into the chair across from me. "That was quite a show earlier." "Didn't realize the entertainment came with the job description." He chuckles, but there's something calculating behind it. "Vivienne Ashford doesn't lose gracefully. And she definitely doesn't forget." "Great. Something else to look forward to." "Just… be careful." His expression turns serious. "Zayden defended you today, but she's got connections, influence. Old money always does." I take a sip of coffee, letting the warmth ground me. "Why did he defend me?" Landon studies me with those sharp lawyer eyes. "That's the million-dollar question, isn't it?" Chapter 4 POV Jocelyn My phone buzzes at exactly 2:14 PM, slicing through my day like a guillotine. Dr. Everett Reeds. Mia's oncologist. The name alone makes my blood crystallize. Doctors don't call during business hours unless someone's dying. "Ms. Hartwell? I need you here immediately. Mia's blood work shows complications." The office tilts sideways. My vision goes spotty. "What complications?" Voice sounds like it's coming from underwater. "White cell count dropped significantly. We need emergency intervention protocols. Four o'clock today." Emergency intervention. The words bounce around my skull like ricocheting bullets. Four o'clock. Right when Zayden's hosting his international investor circle-jerk. The Yamamoto presentation he's been obsessing over like it's the cure for cancer. Which my daughter actually needs. "I'll be there." I hang up and stand outside his office for five eternal minutes, watching him through glass walls. He's reviewing slides with the intensity of someone defusing bombs, completely absorbed in profit margins and market domination. Even with my world imploding, some traitorous part of my brain notices how his jaw tenses when he's concentrating. How he runs fingers through hair when numbers don't cooperate. I'm officially the worst person alive. I knock with knuckles that belong to someone braver. "Enter." Voice cuts through desperation like arctic wind. "Mr. Wolfe, I need early dismissal. Family emergency—" "No." Doesn't even look up. Just drops that word like a concrete tombstone. "I'm sorry?" "Yamamoto presentation. Two hours. Documents need cross-referencing, projections updating, packets assembling. Forty-seven million dollars, Ms. Hartwell. Non-negotiable." My hands clench into fists that could damage expensive objects. "Sir, this is urgent. My daughter's doctor—" "Ms. Hartwell." Finally looks at me with eyes colder than absolute zero. "Let me clarify. I don't pay you for personal problems. Family emergencies are distractions that destroy careers. Your job comes first, personal complications second, or you don't have a job." Each word hits like calculated violence, demolishing every stupid moment I thought I detected humanity beneath corporate armor. "My six-year-old daughter is fighting cancer. This isn't convenience—it's survival." "Precisely the distraction I mentioned." Voice carries lethal calm that makes intelligent people evacuate. "You chose this position. Professional obligations supersede personal complications. Elementary mathematics." Something inside me detonates. Every moment I thought carried meaning—rolled sleeves, almost-smiles, the way he pronounced my name—were just desperate projections onto a beautiful, expensive android. "You know what?" Voice shakes with nuclear fury. "Fuck this." His eyebrows rocket upward like I've announced alien pregnancy. "I will not abandon my dying daughter because some overpaid sociopath can't manage basic meetings without unpaid emotional support. Want someone without personal problems? Hire a robot." I'm backing toward escape, professional facade crumbling like wet cardboard. "I'm exceptional at this job, and any company run by actual humans would be lucky to have me. Figure out your own presentation, you heartless bastard." Momentum carries me toward the door, rage flooding out like broken dam water. "Some things matter more than profit margins. Maybe someday you'll pull your head out of your ass long enough to remember what humanity feels like instead of whatever soulless corporate monster you've become." I grab my purse, Patricia's shocked expression barely registering through tunnel vision. The elevator doors close on Zayden standing motionless in his doorway, staring with an expression I've never witnessed before. For the first time since I started working for him, Zayden Wolfe is completely speechless. Perfect. Let him process that while I save my daughter's life. * * * The hospital at 6 AM smells like disinfectant and broken dreams. I'm curled in the world's most uncomfortable chair, watching Mia sleep in a tangle of IV lines and that hospital gown. Her breathing is steady now—thank Christ—after twelve hours of medical drama that aged me approximately seven years. Dr. Reeds had used words like "stabilized" and "responding well" around 2 AM, which in medical speak translates to "your daughter isn't dying today." Not exactly a victory parade, but I'll take it. My phone has been buzzing intermittently since yesterday afternoon—missed calls from work, probably Patricia wondering where the hell I am. Maybe even Zayden realizing his precious presentation went to shit without his unpaid servant there to hold his hand through basic corporate functions. I don't give a single fuck about any of it. I'm contemplating whether the vending machine coffee will actually kill me when Nurse Jennifer approaches with that careful smile. "Ms. Hartwell? Someone left this for you at the front desk." She hands me a cream-colored envelope. My name is written across the front in handwriting I don't recognize. "When?" I ask, turning the envelope over like it might explode. "About an hour ago. Very handsome gentleman. Insisted we give it to you personally." I frown, brain cycling through possibilities. Helena's boyfriend doesn't qualify as handsome by any reasonable standard. My landlord is approximately seventy and looks like a troll. The only other men in my life are doctors, and they're all married, exhausted, or both. "Did he say what it was about?" Jennifer's professional smile turns into something more personal, conspiratorial. "Well, I shouldn't gossip, but..." She leans closer, lowering her voice like she's sharing state secrets. "Lisa at reception thinks he might be Mia's father. The way he asked about her, seemed so concerned." My stomach does something acrobatic and uncomfortable. "What did he look like?" "Tall, dark hair, green eyes that could melt steel. Expensive suit, but not in that slimy businessman way. More like..." She fans herself dramatically. "Like he stepped out of a magazine about powerful men who secretly read poetry." "Oh God," breathes Rebecca from the pediatric ICU, joining our impromptu gossip session. "You didn't see him? I nearly dropped a tray of medications when he walked past. That jawline could cut glass." "And the voice," adds Sandra from radiology. "Deep, rough around the edges. Like whiskey and cigarettes, but in a good way." I'm staring at them like they're describing a mythical creature instead of some random guy who left me mysterious correspondence. "He kept asking about visiting hours," Jennifer continues, warming to her subject. "Wanted to know about Mia's condition, treatment schedule. Very thorough questions. Definitely father material." "Father material?" I echo weakly. "Honey, the way he looked when he mentioned her name?" Rebecca clutches her chest dramatically. "That's a man in love. With both of you, I'd bet money on it." They're all nodding like they've solved some cosmic mystery, while I'm standing here holding an envelope that feels heavier than it should. "Did he... did he say anything else?" "Just that it was important you get it," Jennifer says. "And that he hoped Mia felt better soon. Very sweet. Very concerned. Definitely keeper material." "I need to..." I gesture vaguely toward Mia's room. "Process this." I escape to Mia's room, closing the door against their romantic speculation and my growing dread. I sit in the chair that's molded to my ass after countless overnight vigils and stare at the envelope like it might contain anthrax. Expensive paper. Careful handwriting. Left by a man whose description sounds suspiciously like... No. That's impossible. Zayden Wolfe doesn't do hospital visits. Doesn't do mysterious envelopes. Doesn't give a damn about anything that doesn't directly impact his quarterly profits.

Where the ad sends people

my-passion.com

Continue reading ➡️