Two Little Secrets From My Boss

Chapter 207

Xander’s POV

I'm reviewing quarterly projections that I've read three times without retaining a single number when Daphne appears in my office doorway. She's standing there with Hope in her arms, and for a moment I just stare at her.

"We need to talk," she says.

My chest tightens. Those four words have never preceded anything good in the history of marriage. "Of course. Come in."

Daphne keeps standing in the doorway like there's an invisible line she won't cross.

"Your mother called," she says, her voice flat. "She's coming over this afternoon to meet Hope. Bringing gifts, she said. Wants to spend time with her granddaughter."

I close my laptop, giving her my full attention. "I can tell her it's not a good time. You need rest, Hope is still adjusting."

"No." The word is sharp, decisive. "We're going to see her together."

I blink, surprised. "Together?"

"Together." Daphne's jaw is set, her posture rigid with determination wrapped in exhaustion. "I won't give her the satisfaction of seeing our family crumble. Won't let her witness the distance between us and use it as ammunition later."

Understanding dawns slowly. This isn't about reconciliation. This is about appearances, strategy. Presenting a united front to the one person who would most enjoy watching us destroy each other.

"Okay," I say carefully. "What do you need from me?"

"Just follow my lead. Act like we're fine, like we're..." She trails off, shifting Hope's weight in her arms. "Act like we're still us."

The words hit harder than they should.

"I can do that," I tell her, even though the thought of pretending makes my chest ache.

She nods once and disappears down the hallway, leaving me alone with the realization that my wife is willing to perform our marriage for my mother but not actually live it with me.

Mom arrives at precisely two o'clock, because she’s never late and never early. She sweeps through the front door carrying shopping bags with logos from stores that don't list their prices, her smile perfectly calibrated to convey warmth without actual feeling.

"Xander, darling." She kisses my cheek, her perfume expensive and cloying. "Where's my granddaughter? I've been dying to meet her properly."

Daphne appears at the top of the stairs, descending with careful precision.

She's changed into a dress that hides her post-pregnancy body, applied makeup that conceals the dark circles under her eyes, styled her hair in a way that looks effortless but probably took twenty minutes.

She looks put-together and composed, nothing like the exhausted woman who stood in my office doorway an hour ago.

"Eleanor," she says, her voice warm in a way that doesn't reach her eyes. "How lovely of you to visit."

My mother's gaze tracks over Daphne with the assessment of a jeweler evaluating a diamond for flaws. I see her catalog everything—the slight puffiness in Daphne's face, the way she moves more slowly than usual, the protective way she holds Hope against her chest.

"Daphne, dear. You look... well, considering." Mother’s smile doesn't waver. "Childbirth is so hard on the body, isn't it? But I'm sure you'll bounce back in time."

The comment lands exactly as intended—a compliment wrapped around criticism, concern disguising judgment. Daphne's smile tightens fractionally, but she doesn't react otherwise.

"Come sit," Daphne says, gesturing toward the living room. "I'm sure you're eager to hold Hope."

We settle in the living room, an awkward tableau of forced domesticity.

Mother produces her gifts with flourish—cashmere blankets, designer baby clothes with tags still attached, an envelope that I know without opening contains a check with too many zeros.

"For Hope's trust fund," Mom says, pressing the envelope into Daphne's hands. "Every child should have security, don't you think?"

"That's very generous," Daphne replies, her voice carefully neutral.

Mom reaches for Hope, and I watch Daphne's body go rigid before she forces herself to relax, to hand over our daughter with a smile that looks almost genuine.

My mother settles Hope in her arms with the practiced ease of someone who's done this before, cooing softly while examining every feature.

"She has the Hale nose," Mom pronounces. "And Xander's eyes. Though I suppose time will tell what other traits she inherits."

The implication hangs in the air—what traits from Daphne might emerge, what flaws might surface, what imperfections might mar the Hale bloodline.

"She's perfect exactly as she is," I say, my voice harder than I intend.

Mom glances at me, something sharp flickering in her expression before it smooths back to maternal concern.

"Of course she is, darling. I just meant—well, children change so much in their first year. You remember how the twins looked completely different at six months than they did as newborns."

She turns her attention back to Daphne, her smile softening into something that might look like sympathy to someone who doesn't know her better.

"How are you managing, dear? Getting enough rest? I know how exhausting newborns can be, especially with twins to care for as well. You must be absolutely drained."

"I'm managing fine," Daphne says, but I hear the strain underneath.

"Of course, of course. Though I do hope you're not trying to be superwoman about this. Postnatal depression is nothing to be ashamed of. So many women struggle after birth, particularly with complicated deliveries like yours."

Mom’s voice drops into confidential concern. "Have you considered speaking to someone? A therapist, perhaps? It might help with the... adjustment."

I watch Daphne's jaw tighten, see her hands curl into fists in her lap. The suggestion is perfectly reasonable on its surface, wrapped in the language of care and concern.

But underneath is the clear implication: something is wrong with Daphne, something broken that needs professional intervention, something that makes her unfit or unstable or struggling in ways that require outside help.

"I appreciate your concern," Daphne says through gritted teeth that she's trying to disguise as a smile, "but I'm…"

"And your body." Mom’s eyes track over Daphne again, clinical and assessing. "You're retaining quite a bit of fluid still. That's normal, but have you talked to your doctor about it? Sometimes hormones take a while to regulate, and the weight can be stubborn."

I see Daphne's face flush, watch her spine go rigid, see the moment she's about to break and say something that will shatter the careful performance we're maintaining.

Something snaps in me.

"That's enough." My voice cuts through the room, cold and absolute.

Mom’s head turns toward me, eyebrows raised in manufactured surprise. "What’s the matter?"

"Your comments are unwelcome." I stand, crossing to where Daphne sits, placing my hand on her shoulder in a gesture that's both protective and possessive. "Daphne is an excellent mother. She's managing beautifully despite having just survived a high-risk delivery and major surgery."

"Xander, I'm only trying to…"

"It's time for you to leave."

My mother's face goes through several expressions in rapid succession—shock, anger, calculation—before settling on cool displeasure.

"I see." She stands with deliberate slowness, handing Hope back to Daphne with exaggerated care. "I was only trying to help. But if my presence is so unwanted, I certainly won't force it."

She collects her purse, her movements precise and controlled, each gesture designed to communicate wounded dignity. At the door, she pauses, turning back to look at me with eyes that hold more warning than affection.

"I hope you know what you're doing, Xander. Family is important. You shouldn't let temporary emotions damage permanent relationships."

She leaves, heels clicking against marble with the rhythm of disappointed expectations. I close the door behind her and stand there for a moment, my hand still on the knob, breathing hard like I've just run a marathon.

When I turn, Daphne is standing in the hallway holding Hope. This is it, I think. This moment where I chose her over my mother, where I defended her and shut down Eleanor's poison, where I proved whose side I'm on.

This could be the bridge that starts to close the distance between us.

Daphne looks at me for a long moment. Something flickers across her face—surprise, maybe, or recognition, or the ghost of the woman who used to look at me with love instead of this careful neutrality.

"Thank you," she says quietly.

She nods once, formal and distant, then walks past me toward the stairs. No touch, no smile, no acknowledgment that what just happened means anything beyond surface politeness.

I watch her disappear up the staircase, Hope cradled against her chest, and feel the hope drain out of me like water from a cracked vessel.

Even standing up for her isn't enough. Even choosing her over my mother, even defending her against attacks she shouldn't have to endure—none of it matters.

I did the right thing. Said the words she needed to hear, took the action she deserved from me.

And it changed nothing.