Two Little Secrets From My Boss

Chapter 208

Xander’s POV

The board meeting is a disaster. I realize this halfway through Harrison's presentation on Q3 projections when I notice everyone staring at me expectantly and I have no idea what question they just asked.

"I'm sorry, could you repeat that?" I say, trying to sound engaged rather than completely absent.

Harrison exchanges a look with Lucinda that I'm not supposed to see but do anyway.

"The Singapore expansion," Harrison repeats slowly. "You were supposed to review the contracts last week. We need your approval to move forward."

I have no memory of these contracts. No memory of promising to review them. The past week is a blur of sleepless nights and careful avoidance of my wife during daylight hours.

"Right. Yes. I'll get those to you by the end of day."

"We needed them three days ago," Lucinda says, her voice carefully neutral. "The window for the deal is closing. If we don't move now, we lose the opportunity."

I should care about this. The Singapore expansion has been in development for eight months. It represents millions in potential revenue, a foothold in a market we've been trying to crack for years. It's exactly the kind of strategic move that usually gets my full attention.

Instead, I find myself reaching for my phone under the table, checking for texts from Daphne that never come. The screen is blank except for work emails and a reminder about the twins' parent-teacher conference next week.

"Xander?" Harrison prompts.

"I'll prioritize it," I say, sliding the phone back into my pocket. "What else?"

The meeting continues. My assistant Sarah takes notes furiously, probably aware that I'm going to need a full recap later because I'm not actually retaining anything being said.

When the meeting finally ends, I'm halfway to my office when Sarah catches up with me.

"Mr. Hale, can we go over the decision queue? There are several items that have been pending for over a week now."

I keep walking. "Send me a list. I'll get to them."

"I did send a list. Three days ago. And the day before that." Her voice is gentle but firm. "Sir, is everything alright? This isn't like you."

I stop, turn to face her. Sarah has been my assistant for six years. She's seen me through acquisitions and hostile takeovers and emergency board meetings at three in the morning.

She's never seen me like this—distracted, unfocused, letting crucial decisions pile up while I stare at my phone waiting for messages that don't come.

"I'm fine," I lie. "Just a lot going on at home with the new baby. You know how it is."

Her expression says she doesn't believe me but she's too professional to push. "Of course. But these decisions really can't wait much longer. The Riverside contract needs signatures, the vendor agreements are expiring, and the…"

"I said I'll get to them."

The words come out harsher than I intend. Sarah takes a small step back, and I immediately feel like an asshole.

"I'm sorry. That was… I'll handle it. Today."

She nods, still wary. "Of course, Mr. Hale."

I retreat to my office and close the door, sinking into my chair with my head in my hands. The truth is, I don't care. Not about Singapore or Riverside or vendor agreements or any of the strategic decisions that used to consume my attention.

Let the empire crumble. Let the carefully constructed business I've spent fifteen years building fall apart at the seams.

What does any of it matter if my marriage is ashes?

I leave work at three—unheard of for me, the man who typically stays until seven or eight, who takes calls at midnight and answers emails before sunrise.

Sarah looks stunned when I tell her I'm done for the day, but she doesn't comment. Just nods and probably adds "leaving early" to the growing list of concerning behaviors she's cataloging.

I don't go straight home. Instead, I find myself driving through the city until I reach the jewelry district, parking in front of a store I've never been to before.

Not the place where I bought Daphne's engagement ring—that was Cartier, ostentatious and expensive and exactly what everyone expected from a Hale proposal. This is smaller, quieter, the kind of place where the pieces are chosen for beauty rather than status.

Inside, I stare at necklaces under glass until they all blur together. The saleswoman hovers nearby, offering to show me specific pieces, asking what the occasion is. I don't answer, just keep looking until one catches my eye.

It's simple, elegant. A delicate gold chain with a small pendant—nothing ostentatious or flashy, nothing that screams wealth or grand gesture. Just something beautiful that made me think of Daphne the moment I saw it.

"That one," I say, pointing.

The saleswoman wraps it in a small box, navy blue with a white ribbon. It looks almost modest compared to the grand gestures I usually make—the bouquets of roses, the surprise trips, the expensive restaurants. This is more honest, somehow.

It won't fix anything, I know that. A necklace can't erase the choice I made, can't give Daphne back the trust I destroyed. But maybe it can be a starting point.

I drive home with the box in my pocket, its weight both insignificant and enormous.

The house is quiet when I arrive. Margaret and Robert must have the twins—I can hear their absence in the way sound travels differently through empty rooms.

I find Daphne in the nursery with Hope, rocking slowly in the chair we picked out together months ago when the pregnancy still felt like a happy ending instead of the beginning of our unraveling.

She looks up when I enter, surprise flickering across her face. "You're home early."

"I needed to be here," I say, leaning against the doorframe.

Curiosity flickers in her expression, or wariness. She turns her attention back to Hope, who's sleeping peacefully against her chest.

I pull the box from my pocket. Don't rehearse what I'm going to say, don't plan some elaborate presentation. Just cross the room and hold it out to her without preamble, without grand gesture, without speech.

Daphne looks at the box for a long moment. Then at me. Her face is unreadable, carefully neutral in the way she's perfected over the past week.

She doesn't smile, doesn't soften. But slowly, carefully, she shifts Hope in her arms and takes the box.

She opens it one-handed, the lid lifting to reveal the necklace nestled inside. Her fingers trace the chain, the pendant, and I watch her face for any reaction—pleasure, anger, dismissal. Anything.

"It's beautiful," she says quietly.

"It made me think of you."

She's silent for another moment, studying the necklace like it might reveal some hidden meaning. Then, without speaking, she turns her back to me. The gesture is small but monumental—silent permission, an opening I wasn't sure she'd give.

My hands shake slightly as I lift the necklace from the box. I'm suddenly aware of how intimate this is, how long it's been since I've touched her with any kind of intention. My fingers fumble with the clasp, clumsy with nerves and the desperate desire not to break this fragile moment.

When I finally get it fastened, my fingers brush against her neck. Her skin is warm and soft, and the contact—brief, accidental—sends electricity through my entire body. I let my hands linger for just a second longer than necessary, tracing the chain where it rests against her shoulders.

Daphne reaches up to touch the pendant, her fingers finding its shape. She still hasn't turned to face me, hasn't looked at me since giving me permission to put it on.

The moment stretches between us—fragile, uncertain, heavy with all the words we're not saying. I want to pull her against me, bury my face in her hair, breathe her in until I can remember what it felt like when she didn't flinch at my touch. But I stay frozen, afraid that one wrong move will shatter whatever this is.

"We need to talk," I say finally, my voice low and rough.

Daphne's shoulders tense immediately. I feel her whole body go rigid under my hands, preparing for battle or retreat or whatever defense mechanism she's developed to survive conversations with me.

But she doesn't walk away.