Two Little Secrets From My Boss

Chapter 228

Daphne’s POV

Something feels wrong during this morning's Hope feeding. I notice it immediately—the way she latches but barely sucks, like the effort of pulling milk exhausts her before she's taken more than a few pulls.

Her tiny face scrunches with what looks like frustration or discomfort.

Then I hear it: her breathing, quick and shallow, her tiny chest rising and falling too fast. Not the normal rhythm I've memorized over the past six weeks. This is labored, effortful, like she's working too hard for each breath.

"Come on, sweet girl," I murmur, adjusting her position, trying different angles that might make feeding easier. "Just a little more."

But Hope's eyes are already drooping. Within minutes, she's asleep against my chest, having taken maybe an ounce.

I hold her for a moment, feeling the rapid rise and fall of her chest against mine. Too fast. Definitely too fast. My own heart starts matching the frantic pace as panic rises in my throat.

I carry Hope upstairs to Xander's office, trying to keep my footsteps steady, trying not to let the fear show in how I'm holding her.

He's at his desk reviewing something on his laptop, but looks up immediately when I appear in the doorway.

"Xander." My voice shakes a little. "Something's wrong with Hope."

He's on his feet instantly, crossing to me. "What's wrong?"

"Her breathing. It's too fast, too shallow. And she barely ate anything just now. Fell asleep after a few minutes like she was exhausted." I'm speaking quickly now, the words tumbling out. "This isn't normal."

Xander's hand comes to rest gently on Hope's back, feeling the rapid breathing for himself. I watch his face change as he registers what I'm describing. The shift from concern to something darker.

"Calling the doctor now," he says, already moving toward his phone. "The pediatrician. We'll get her in today."

But I'm already shaking my head. "Not the pediatrician. A cardiologist. Her heart… Xander, I think it's her heart."

The words come from some instinct I can't name, some maternal recognition of danger I didn't know I possessed. But I'm certain. This isn't a cold or reflux or any of the minor ailments newborns get.

Xander doesn't question it, just nods and starts making calls. His voice is controlled, efficient, the CEO handling a crisis. Within minutes, he has an emergency appointment scheduled for this afternoon with Dr. Chen, the pediatric cardiologist at Children's Hospital.

The next few hours pass in a blur. Mom comes to watch the twins.

I try to explain to Nina and Lisa that we're taking Hope to the doctor, that everything's probably fine, lying through my teeth while my daughter struggles to breathe in my arms.

At the hospital, we're ushered into an examination room almost immediately. Dr. Chen is young, maybe early thirties, with kind eyes and steady hands that inspire confidence even as terror claws at my throat.

"Let's take a look at this little one," she says, gesturing for me to lay Hope on the examination table.

Hope barely stirs. That unusual stillness that's been terrifying me all morning. She should be more alert, more active. Six-week-olds don't sleep this much unless something is stealing their energy.

Dr. Chen listens to Hope's chest with a stethoscope, her expression neutral but focused. Then she orders tests. Echocardiogram. EKG. Blood work to check oxygen levels and other markers.

The echo takes the longest. I hold Hope as still as possible while the technician moves the wand across her tiny chest, the screen showing grainy black and white images that mean nothing to me but everything to the professionals watching.

Xander stands beside me, one hand on my shoulder, the other gripping the edge of the examination table so hard his knuckles are white.

Dr. Chen's face grows progressively graver as she watches the images. She doesn't say anything, just makes notes on her tablet, occasionally asking the technician to capture specific views.

When all the tests are complete, Dr. Chen gestures for us to follow her to her office down the hall. A nurse stays with Hope, monitoring her while we talk. I don't want to leave my daughter, but Xander's hand on my back guides me forward.

In Dr. Chen's office, we sit in chairs that are too comfortable for the conversation we're about to have. She settles behind her desk, pulls up images on her computer screen, takes a breath that tells me everything I need to know before she even speaks.

"Hope has congenital heart defects," she says, her voice gentle but direct. "Multiple structural abnormalities that weren't detected during pregnancy, probably because they weren't severe enough to show on standard ultrasounds. But they're progressing now."

The words land like physical blows. Congenital heart defects. Multiple abnormalities. Progressing.

"What does that mean?" Xander's voice is tight, controlled. "What kind of defects?"

Dr. Chen turns the monitor toward us, pointing to areas on the echo images.

"Her left ventricle is underdeveloped—what we call hypoplastic. There are also septal defects, essentially holes between the chambers of her heart. And valve abnormalities that are affecting blood flow."

She continues explaining, using terms I only half understand. Pulmonary stenosis. Ventricular septal defect. Tetralogy of Fallot. Each diagnosis is another nail in the coffin of the normal childhood I'd imagined for my daughter.

"What's her prognosis?" I manage to ask, though my voice sounds like it's coming from very far away.

"She's showing signs of early heart failure. Not immediately life-threatening, but serious. We need to start medication immediately."

"And long-term?" Xander asks.

"She'll need close monitoring." Dr. Chen's voice is compassionate but honest. "This will affect her entire life—her childhood, her adolescence, her future. She'll always have limitations compared to other children."

The room feels like it's tilting. My six-week-old daughter has a failing heart. Will need multiple surgeries. Will spend her childhood in and out of hospitals. Will never be able to run and play like other kids without restrictions, without fear.

"Is this…" My voice cracks. "Did I do something wrong? During the pregnancy?"

"No." Dr. Chen's response is immediate and firm. "Congenital heart defects happen during fetal development, usually in the first eight weeks of pregnancy. There's nothing you could have done differently."

But her reassurance doesn't penetrate the guilt already spreading through my chest like poison. My body grew Hope. My body was supposed to protect her, nourish her, create her perfectly.

And instead, my body gave her a broken heart.

I feel Xander's hand find mine, his fingers lacing through and squeezing tight. When I look at him, I see my own devastation reflected in his eyes.

"What's the next step?" he asks Dr. Chen, and I'm grateful he can still think practically when I'm drowning.

"I'm prescribing two medications that we'll start today. I'll show you how to administer them—dosing is critical with infants. We'll schedule a follow-up for next week to see how she's responding. And we'll need to discuss surgical options and timelines."

Dr. Chen's expression softens. "I know this is overwhelming. Hope's condition is serious, but it's manageable. She can have a good quality of life with proper care."

Manageable. Quality of life. The words feel hollow against the image of my daughter's tiny chest struggling to breathe, her exhaustion after barely eating, the medication bottles I'll have to master and the surgeries that loom in our future.

We return to the examination room where Hope sleeps, oblivious to the diagnosis that's just rewritten her entire life. I gather her into my arms, holding her against my chest.

Xander's arms come around both of us, creating a shelter that can't protect us from what's coming but tries anyway.