My Boss, My Babydaddy by Tessa Kelwyn
Chapter 1
Author’s Note:
Hello, dears!
Before you dive into the story, I just want to say a huge thank you!
This book has received so much love and attention, and honestly, it still amazes me.
I’ve read every single one of your comments. Some made me smile, some made me laugh, and some pointed out mistakes I never noticed on my own. You didn’t just read my story, you helped me make it better, and helped me grow as a writer too!
The chapters ahead have been freshly edited, and I really think you’re going to love how they turned out.
Thank you for sticking with me and with these characters!
Send love to y'all!
* * *
POV Jocelyn
“Shoot, shoot, SHOOT—”
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 brilliant move.”
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 name plate 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 CEO walks out, like he owns the world.
Broad shoulders in a charcoal suit, sleeves rolled up. Hair that’s somewhere between gold and ash, perfectly tousled.
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.
Green like sea surface, like emeralds, like every cliché poets use. They’re sharp enough to cut glass and focused enough to dissect my soul in under three seconds.
There’s something about him. Something that pulls at the edges of my memory like a half-forgotten dream.
The recognition hits like déjà vu mixed with something deeper.
“You’re late.” He ends his call and slides the phone into his pocket without breaking eye contact.
“Sorry, traffic was—”
“I don’t want excuses. I want results and discipline.”
His voice is low and measured, clipped and commanding.
“Right. Results and discipline. Got it.” I sound breathless and hate how obvious it is.
He’s already moving. “Conference room. Cunningham files. Twenty minutes.”
“Which Cunningham files?”
He stops. Pivots. “The ones you should have reviewed instead of… whatever happened this morning.”
Ouch. Direct hit.
“I was at the hospital…”
“Personal problems stay personal. This is business.”
The next eight hours test every nerve I have. Every order lands like a judgment. He critiques my filing system, my coffee, even how I answer the phone.
Nothing I do is right.
But I need this job. Mia needs this job.
So I bite my tongue and push through.
There’s something about him—maybe just the pressure, the power, the stakes. Whatever it is, it leaves me unsettled.
At exactly five o’clock, I bolt from that building like it’s on fire.
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.
“Why tigers, baby?”
She considers it seriously. “Because they’re brave and strong. Like my daddy would be if I had one.”
My heart twists. “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 thinking.
Seven years ago. A gala I never wanted to attend. Champagne. Masks. A stranger who made me feel alive. Eyes that burned. A voice full of warmth.
A night that changed everything.
I left before he woke. Before I could fall harder.
Before I could tell him the truth.
Somewhere in this city, that stranger lives his life—successful, powerful, unaware. While his daughter dreams of a father strong enough to save her.
He has no idea she exists. No idea she’s fighting for her life. No idea he gave me the most beautiful thing in my world.
The child he never knew he had.
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Chapter 2
Three days under Zayden Wolfe, and I've learned three things.
One: he never says please. Two words—"Ms. Hartwell"—and my entire nervous system goes on high alert.
Fix my calendar. Brief me on Johnson. Ten minutes.
Then the door slams.
Two: nothing I do is right.
Not my filing system, not my coffee, not the way I breathe in his general direction.
Three: I'm still here.
Still employed. Still getting paid while my daughter fights for her life twenty blocks away. That's the only thing that matters.
On day four, the upstairs printer explodes. I'm crouched behind the reception desk in a crime scene of black ink when a white Chanel jacket slams down right on top of the wet papers.
"Handle this," commands a voice dripping with superiority. "I'm late for lunch."
Platinum hair. Blood-red lips. Diamonds catching the light. She's already turning away, dismissing me like furniture.
"Wait—your jacket. It landed on wet ink."
Her expression detonates. "Are you kidding me? You ruined it! That jacket is worth more than your pathetic salary!"
The whole lobby goes silent.
"I didn't ruin anything. You threw it down without looking."
"Typical service-class mentality," she sneers. "Blame everyone else for your failures."
Something inside me snaps. "At least I work for my money instead of inheriting it from dead relatives."
Gasps ripple across the marble.
Patricia grabs my arm with steel fingers.
"That's Vivienne Ashford," she hisses. "Mr. Wolfe's fiancée. You just declared war on nuclear power."
The floor tilts beneath my feet. His… fiancée?
Then his office door opens.
"What," Zayden says with lethal quiet, "is happening here?"
"Zay, thank God." Vivienne's voice turns wounded. "Your little assistant destroyed my jacket and insulted me! You can't have employees treating your fiancée like she's nobody special."
His green eyes move between us. Then he steps closer to her.
"Everyone's nobody special when they're screaming at my employees over accidents."
Vivienne's mouth opens and closes without a sound.
"Ms. Hartwell. Send the jacket to the cleaner. Company account." He checks his watch. "Weren't you leaving, Vivienne?"
She storms toward the elevator in a cloud of perfume and wounded pride.
Silence. Then those green eyes land on me, and something like amusement flickers across his granite face.
"Next time someone throws valuables on wet surfaces, Ms. Hartwell—let physics teach its own lessons."
He disappears into his office, leaving me standing among the stares, my heart doing something it absolutely shouldn't.
Why did he just take my side over hers?
Two days later, my phone buzzes at 2:14 p.m.
Dr. Reeds. Mia's oncologist.
"Ms. Hartwell? Mia's blood work shows complications. We need emergency intervention. Four o'clock today."
The office tilts sideways.
Four o'clock. Right in the middle of the Yamamoto presentation Mr. Wolfe has been obsessing over for weeks.
I knock on his door with knuckles that belong to someone braver. "Mr. Wolfe, I need to leave early. Family emergency—"
"No." He doesn't even look up. "Forty-seven million dollars, Ms. Hartwell. Documents, projections, packets. Non-negotiable."
"Sir, my daughter's doctor…"
Finally, he looks at me. His eyes are colder than absolute zero.
"I don't pay you for personal problems. Your job comes first, or you don't have a job."
"My six-year-old daughter is fighting cancer," I whisper. "This isn't convenience. It's survival."
"Precisely the kind of distraction I mean."
Something inside me detonates.
"You know what? I will not abandon my dying daughter because some overpaid robot can't run a meeting without me." My voice shakes. "I'm exceptional at this job. Figure out your own presentation, you heartless man. Some things matter more than profit margins!"
I grab my purse and on my way, I see Patricia's jaw is on the floor.
The elevator doors close on Zayden standing motionless in his doorway, staring at me with an expression I've never seen before.
For the first time, Zayden Wolfe is speechless.
* * *
The hospital at 6 a.m. smells like disinfectant and twelve hours of medical drama. Mia sleeping now in a tangle of IV lines, breathing steady. Not a victory. But she's not dying today.
My job? I don't care. I probably don't have one anymore.
Then Nurse Jennifer hands me a cream-colored envelope.
"Someone left this for you at the front desk an hour ago. A very handsome gentleman with striking green eyes. Lisa at reception suggested he might be her father." She lowers her voice. "He asked about Mia's condition and treatment schedule."
My stomach drops. I escape to Mia's room and tear the envelope open with trembling fingers. A check falls into my lap.
Five thousand dollars. And in the memo line, in careful handwriting: ‘For Mia.’
The signature stops my heart.
Z. Wolfe.
Yesterday he was a heartless monster who valued spreadsheets over a sick child.
Today he's standing at her hospital at dawn, asking about her treatment.
I stare at the check until the numbers blur. Because I told him I have a sick daughter. I told him she has cancer.
But I never told him her name.
So how does he know it?
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