Two Little Secrets From My Boss

Chapter 202

Xander’s POV

It’s been three days of sleeping in the guest room down the hall, the mattress unfamiliar and too firm. I’ve been watching Daphne move through the house like I'm invisible, like I'm a ghost haunting the edges of a life I used to be part of.

I try everything.

The first morning, I bring her breakfast: toast with the raspberry jam she loves, scrambled eggs the way she likes them, and coffee in her favorite mug.

I set the tray on the small table in the nursery where Daphne’s feeding Hope.

"I thought you might be hungry," I say quietly, trying to keep my voice neutral, non-threatening.

She doesn't look up from Hope. "Thank you."

"Do you need anything else? I can make more coffee, or…"

"I'm fine." The words are polite but empty.

I stand there for another moment, hoping she'll say something more, hoping she'll look at me. But she just adjusts Hope's position, focusing entirely on our daughter like I'm not even in the room.

Eventually I leave, the breakfast cooling untouched on the table.

The second night, I hear Hope crying at two in the morning. I'm awake instantly—I haven't been sleeping well, every sound in the house pulling me from the shallow rest I manage.

I move down the hall toward the nursery, thinking maybe I can help, maybe this can be the opening I need.

Daphne is already there, of course. I pause in the doorway, watching her lift Hope from the bassinet with practiced gentleness.

"I can take her," I offer. "You should to rest."

"I've got it." Her voice is flat, dismissive.

"Daphne, please. You've been up every two hours for three days. You need sleep."

"I said I've got it, Xander."

The way she says my name, like she's spitting it out, makes my chest tighten. I watch her settle into the rocking chair, Hope already latching on, and realize I'm not welcome here. Not in this room, not in this moment, not in any part of the life we're supposed to be sharing.

I retreat to the guest room and lie awake, staring at the ceiling and listening to the house settle around me.

The third day, I try conversation. I find Daphne in the kitchen making tea, Margaret and Robert out with the twins at the park.

"We need to talk about what happened," I say, leaning against the counter.

She doesn't turn around, just keeps pouring hot water into her mug. "There's nothing to talk about."

"Daphne, you won't even look at me. You flinch when I get near Hope. We can't keep living like this."

She finally turns, and the coldness in her eyes nearly breaks me. “Not everything happens the way we want it to.”

"That's not fair."

"You want to talk about fair?" Her voice rises slightly, the first real emotion I've heard in days. "Was it fair that you got to make a choice about who lived and who died? Was it fair that I woke up to find out my husband was willing to let our daughter die?"

"The doctors needed an answer immediately. What was I supposed to do?"

"You were supposed to choose our daughter!" Daphne stares at me for a long moment, pain, anger and something I can't quite read flicked across her face.

Then she picks up her tea and walks past me without another word.

I slam my hand against the counter after she's gone, the sharp pain doing nothing to ease the ache in my chest.

Nina corners me that evening while I'm in my office pretending to work. She climbs into my lap without asking. "Daddy, why aren't you sleeping with Mommy anymore?"

My throat tightens. "Mommy needs space right now, sweetheart."

"But she sleeps in your bed. Why can't you sleep there too?"

"Sometimes grown-ups need space even when they're in the same house."

Nina processes this, her small face scrunched with concentration. "Are you mad that Mommy had another baby?"

"No, baby, no. I'm not mad about Hope. I love Hope. I love all of you."

"Then why is Mommy mad at you?"

I don't have an answer that won't terrify a five-year-old.

"Mommy's not mad," I lie, pulling Nina closer. "She's just tired and sad sometimes. Having a baby is hard, even when you're happy about it."

"Lisa says Mommy cries a lot. I heard her crying last night."

The knowledge sits in my stomach like lead. "Did you go check on her?"

"She was in Hope's room, the door was closed."

I press a kiss to Nina's forehead, holding her tight. "How about we have a special breakfast tomorrow? Just you, me, and Lisa. Pancakes with chocolate chips."

Her face brightens slightly. "Can we have whipped cream too?"

"As much as you want."

She hugs me and scampers off, reassured for now. But I know the questions will come again.

The twins are too smart, too observant. They sense the fault lines running through our family, even if they don't understand what caused them.

At two in the morning, I find myself standing outside the nursery door again. I don't mean to—my feet just carry me there, drawn by the sound of Hope crying and the low murmur of Daphne's voice soothing her.

I should go back to the guest room, should give her the space she clearly wants. But I can't make myself move.

Daphne starts singing a lullaby. Her voice cracks on certain notes, rough with exhaustion and emotion, but it's the most beautiful sound I've heard in days.

I lean against the wall, eyes closed, and listen. This might be my new normal—standing outside closed doors, loving someone who can't stand my touch, existing in the margins of a life I used to be at the center of.

Hope's crying fades to silence. Daphne continues singing for another verse, then stops. I hear the creak of the rocking chair, soft footsteps, the gentle sound of Hope being placed in her bassinet.

I should leave before Daphne opens the door. Should be back in the guest room, pretending I wasn't here. But I'm tired of pretending.

The door opens. Daphne freezes when she sees me, her hand still on the doorknob. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough."

She starts to close the door, to shut me out again, but I stop it with my hand.

"Daphne, please. Just talk to me. Tell me what I can do to fix this."

"There's nothing to fix." Her voice is tired, defeated. "You made your choice. You told the doctors to save me and let Hope die. That's what happened."

"Hope is alive."

"By a miracle, not because of you."

The words hit like physical blows. I drop my hand from the door.

"I love you," I say quietly. "I love all of you. And I would make the same choice again because I cannot lose you. I'm sorry if that makes me a monster, but it's the truth."

Something flickers across her face—pain, recognition, something that might be understanding. But then it's gone, replaced by the cold distance that's become her default.

"I know," she says softly. "That's what terrifies me."

She closes the door. I stand there in the dark hallway, listening to her footsteps fade, and realize this might be my life now. This distance. This silence. This brutal certainty that I saved the woman I love and lost her anyway.

I think about the choice again, replay it in my mind like I have a thousand times since that day in the hospital. The doctors' faces, clinical and urgent. The seconds ticking down. Daphne's life hanging by a thread. Hope's heart failing. The impossible weight of choosing.

And I understand with a terrifying clarity that I would make the same decision over and over again.