Two Little Secrets From My Boss

Chapter 205

Xander’s POV

I'm in my home office pretending to work when Robert appears in the doorway. I don't hear him approach.

One moment I'm alone, staring at my laptop screen without actually seeing it, and the next he's standing there with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

"We need to talk," he says. Not a request.

My stomach drops. I've been avoiding Robert since he and Margaret arrived, dreading this exact conversation.

Robert Carter is not a man who deals in pleasantries or social niceties. He's direct, blunt, the kind of person who says exactly what he thinks and expects you to handle it like an adult.

"Of course. Come in."

He enters, closes the door behind him with a soft click that sounds ominous. Doesn't sit in either of the chairs across from my desk.

Just stands there, solid and immovable, with the bearing of someone who's faced down worse things than uncomfortable conversations with his daughter's husband.

The silence stretches. I force myself to meet his eyes, even though everything in me wants to look away. Whatever he's come to say, I owe him the respect of facing it head-on.

"Did you make the call to save my daughter?" His voice is flat, emotionless, the question delivered like a military debriefing.

There's no point in lying. No point in softening it or explaining the context or trying to make myself look better. "Yes."

Robert nods once. "Good."

The word hits me like a physical blow. I stare at him, certain I misheard. "What?"

"Good," he repeats, his expression still neutral. "You made the right call."

I open my mouth, close it. Try to find words that make sense but come up empty. Of everyone in this house, everyone in my life, Robert is the last person I expected to receive absolution from.

"Daphne doesn't think so," I finally manage.

"Daphne's grieving," Robert says simply. "And grief makes people angry. Makes them lash out at whoever's closest, whoever's responsible, whoever's still standing when they feel like they should have fallen."

"She hates me."

"She loves you." He moves closer to the desk, his hands resting on the back of one of the chairs. "That's why it hurts so much. If she didn't love you, your choice wouldn't matter."

The logic is sound, but it doesn't ease the ache in my chest. "She can't stand to be in the same room with me. She won't let me hold Hope, she flinches when I come near."

"She will come around." Robert's certainty is absolute, the kind that comes from decades of experience making hard calls and living with the consequences. "She just needs time."

"Time to forgive me?"

"Time to stop being angry she's alive when Hope almost wasn't."

The words sit between us, heavy and profound. I replay them in my mind, trying to understand what he's really saying.

"You think she's angry at herself?"

"I know she is."

Robert's face softens fractionally, the Marine exterior cracking just enough to show the father underneath.

"Margaret told me about the first few days in the hospital. Daphne wouldn't look at Hope, wouldn't hold her. The nurses had to bring the baby to her for feedings, and even then she'd turn her head away as much as she could."

I remember those days—standing outside Daphne's hospital room, watching through the window as nurses tried to encourage her to bond with Hope. I'd thought she was in shock and exhausted. Overwhelmed by the trauma of emergency surgery and the medications they'd given her.

"She was relieved Hope survived," Robert continues quietly. "But she was also angry about it. Angry that she got to live when the choice was supposed to be one or the other. Angry that you picked her, that she matters more to you than your daughter did at that moment."

"That's not…" I start, then stop. Because that's exactly what happened. In that impossible moment, I chose Daphne. And she's right to be angry about it.

"You made her complicit," Robert says, and the words cut deeper than any condemnation could. "By choosing her, you made her responsible for Hope almost dying. Every time she looks at that baby, she sees the choice you made. The choice she didn't get to make for herself."

My throat tightens. "I didn't… I never thought about it that way."

"I know. You thought you were saving, protecting her. Giving the twins their mother back." Robert's voice is still flat, factual, but there's understanding underneath. "But you also took away her agency, made a decision about her life, her daughter's life, without her input."

"I had seconds," I say, hearing the desperation in my own voice. "The doctors needed an answer immediately. I couldn't… There was no time to—"

"I know." Robert holds up a hand, cutting off my explanation. "I'm not saying you did the wrong thing. I already told you—you made the right call. But right and easy aren't the same thing. You did what you had to do, and now you're both paying the price for it."

I lean back in my chair, feeling the weight of the past few days settle over me like a physical burden. "How long did it take Margaret to forgive you?" I add eventually, seeing surprise on Rober’s face. “I overheard her talking to Daphne.”

Robert answers after a short pause:

"It took her three months to sleep in the same bed with me again," Robert says matter-of-factly. "Six months before she stopped flinching when I touched her. A year before we could talk about it without her crying."

The timeline stretches ahead of me, endless and exhausting. "And after that?"

"After that, we had another thirty years of marriage, a life—not perfect, but happy enough to hold on."

He meets my eyes, and for the first time, I see something that might be sympathy.

"But Margaret still brings it up sometimes when we fight. Still uses it as ammunition when she's angry about something else. Some wounds don't heal cleanly. They scar, and those scars pull when the weather changes."

"So you're saying this might never go away."

"I'm saying it gets easier, not easy." Robert straightens, preparing to leave. "Daphne's strong, stronger than you give her credit for. She'll work through this, but she needs time, and she needs space."

"Then what am I supposed to do?"

"Be there, be patient, let her be angry. Don't defend yourself, don't explain, don't try to make her understand your reasoning."

He moves toward the door, then pauses with his hand on the knob. "And for God's sake, stop sleeping in the guest room. Go back to your bedroom. She might kick you out, might not let you in the bed, but at least you're making it clear you're not giving up."

He leaves before I can respond, the door closing with that same soft click.

I sit alone in my office, staring at nothing, while his words replay in my mind. Daphne isn't just angry at me—she's angry at herself for surviving.

The grief has nowhere to go, so it's aimed at the person who made the choice. At me, but also at herself, for being chosen, for mattering more in that impossible moment.

Understanding doesn't make it hurt less.

If anything, it makes it worse. Because now I know that every time she looks at me, she's not just seeing the man who was willing to let Hope die.

She's seeing the man who decided her life was worth more than their daughter's. The man who made her complicit in a choice she never wanted to make.

I chose to save Daphne, and in doing so, I forced her to live with the weight of that choice too.

Robert said she'll come around. That she just needs time. But how much time? How long do I wait before the distance between us becomes permanent? How long before the guest room stops being temporary and starts being my reality?

I don't have answers. Just Robert's advice ringing in my ears: be there, be patient, let her be angry.

And stop sleeping in the guest room.