Two Little Secrets From My Boss

Chapter 224

Daphne’s POV

I make the call on Tuesday morning while Xander's at the office and the girls are with Mom. My mother had offered to take all three for the afternoon—sensing, perhaps, that I needed space for something I couldn't do with children underfoot.

The receptionist at Parker & Associates is professionally pleasant when she confirms my appointment. Two o'clock. I have three hours to convince myself this is the right thing to do, or talk myself out of going entirely.

I spend those three hours feeding Hope, folding tiny onesies that are already clean, reorganizing the nursery closet for the second time this week. Anything to avoid thinking about where I'm going and why.

At one-thirty, I change into something that makes me look competent, like a woman who makes difficult decisions with clarity rather than desperation. The effect is unconvincing even to me.

Melissa Parker's office is in a building downtown that reeks of money and discretion. Frosted glass doors, receptionist who doesn't blink when I give my name, waiting area with leather chairs and magazines I'm too anxious to read.

This is where marriages come to be dismantled with professional efficiency.

Melissa Parker herself is exactly what I expected—mid-forties, perfectly tailored suit, kind eyes that have seen every variation of marital destruction.

She shakes my hand with a grip that's firm without being aggressive and gestures me toward the chair across from her massive desk.

"Mrs. Hale," she says, settling into her own chair. "Thank you for coming in. I understand you're exploring your options regarding separation?"

The word sounds clinical, antiseptic. Like we're discussing a business transaction rather than the end of everything I built with Xander.

"I'm not sure," I admit, and my voice sounds smaller than I want it to. "I just need to understand what it would look like. If I decided to…" I can't finish the sentence.

"Of course." Melissa's voice is sympathetic without being pitiful. "Why don't we start with the basics? You and Mr. Hale have been married for how long?"

"We got married about a year and a half ago, but we've been together longer—we have five-year-old twins from before we married, and a six weeks old newborn."

Melissa makes notes on her legal pad. "And what are you hoping to achieve from a separation? Full divorce, or perhaps a trial separation first?"

"I don't know." The admission makes me feel weak. "I just need to know what my options are, what it would mean for the children."

For the next forty minutes, Melissa outlines my options with the detached professionalism of someone who does this every day.

Division of assets—complex, given Xander's wealth and business holdings.

Custody arrangements—she recommends starting with a proposal for primary physical custody with generous visitation for Xander.

Spousal support—probably unnecessary given my own business, but possible if I wanted to pursue it. The house, the cars, the investments, the trusts already established for the children.

Everything can be divided. Everything has a price, a negotiation point, a legal framework.

Then she gets to the part that makes my stomach drop.

"I need to be honest with you, Mrs. Hale. With your husband's resources and legal team, a custody battle would be brutal."

Melissa sets down her pen, meets my eyes directly.

"His lawyers will use every tool available to establish that he's the more stable parent. They'll point to your company responsibilities, your work hours, any evidence that might suggest the children are better off in his primary care."

My throat tightens. "I'm their mother."

"I know. And in most cases, that would be a significant advantage. But if Eleanor Hale is anything like what you're describing, then she'd find these avenues easily."

Melissa's voice is gentle but firm.

"Someone with her resources and connections could speak with family court judges, express concerns about your mental state following the birth. Postpartum depression. Emotional instability. Nothing actionable yet, but groundwork that could be damaging in a custody proceeding."

The betrayal shouldn't surprise me. Of course Eleanor would weaponize my grief. Of course she'd turn my worst moments into ammunition.

"There's also the matter of your high-risk pregnancy and current medical situation with your newborn."

Melissa continues.

"The defense will argue that the stress of primary custody could impact your ability to care for a medically fragile infant. They'll suggest that Mr. Hale's resources—the ability to hire full-time medical staff, provide the best care possible, make him the better choice for primary custody."

"So I might lose my children." The words come out dead.

"It's a possibility." Melissa doesn't soften it. "I'm not saying you would, I'm saying the fight would be expensive, lengthy, and emotionally devastating for everyone involved. Including the children."

I sit in the leather chair in this expensive office and feel the reality settle over me like ice water. I came here thinking I was exploring options. Maintaining control over my own life.

Instead, I'm learning that leaving Xander might mean losing everything that matters.

"What would you recommend?" I ask, because I don't know what else to say.

Melissa leans back in her chair.

"Honestly? If there's any possibility of reconciliation, pursue it. Therapy, mediation, whatever it takes. A custody battle of this magnitude will destroy your family in ways you can't predict. And based on what you've told me, you don't actually want a divorce. You want your marriage back."

Her words hit like a diagnosis I already knew but didn't want confirmed.

I thank her for her time. She hands me her card before I go. "In case you need it"

I walk out of her office into the bright afternoon sun feeling sick.

I don't want a divorce. I never wanted a divorce. I just want my husband back. The one who existed before the impossible choice, before the hospital, before everything broke.

I want the man who painted the nursery with me, who makes terrible jokes while changing diapers, who looks at me like I'm the center of his universe.

That man still exists. I saw him yesterday morning when Hope smiled for the first time—Xander's face lit up like she'd performed a miracle. I saw him two nights ago when Nina had a nightmare and he spent an hour in her room, reading stories until she fell asleep.

He's still there, underneath all the damage we've done to each other.

My phone buzzes. A reminder: therapy session with Dr. Sutton at six o'clock.

I stare at the notification for a long moment. My first instinct is to cancel. To text Xander some excuse about Hope needing extra attention, about being too tired, about anything that doesn't require sitting in that office and exposing our wounds again.

Instead, I text back confirming I'll be there.

Maybe Charlotte was right, maybe this is worth one more attempt. One more session, one more chance to find the bridge back to each other before I use Melissa Parker's card for anything more than information.

At home, I feed Hope and try not to think about custody battles. Try not to imagine a judge deciding I'm unfit to raise my own children. Try not to see Eleanor's satisfied smile when she learns she's successfully destroyed me.

When it's time to leave for therapy, Xander's already in the car. We don't talk during the drive. But when we park, he waits for me to get out first, holds the door to the building open, walks beside me down the hallway to Dr. Sutton's office.

Small gestures. Meaningless, maybe, but I hold onto them anyway.

We sit in the same chairs as last week. Dr. Sutton greets us with the same calm professionalism, asks how our week has been, invites us to continue where we left off.

I look at Xander across the small space. See the exhaustion in his eyes that probably mirrors my own. See the man I love buried under the weight of what we've become.

And I try. One more time, I try.

Because the alternative—the custody battle, the division of assets, the destruction Melissa Parker outlined so clearly—that's not an option I can survive.

This marriage might be broken. But broken things can be repaired. They just take time, effort, and the willingness to keep trying even when trying feels impossible.

So I take a breath, meet Dr. Sutton's encouraging gaze, and start talking.