Two Little Secrets From My Boss

Chapter 200

Xander’s POV

"Save Daphne."

The words come out steady. Clear. Without the hesitation that's been tearing me apart since the doctor asked the question.

"Save my wife."

It feels like tearing out part of my own soul. Like reaching into my chest and ripping something essential free. But I say it clearly. Without qualification. Without taking it back.

The doctor nods once. Professional. Efficient. Already turning back toward the doors. "We'll do everything we can."

Then he's gone. The doors swing closed with finality that echoes down the hallway.

I stand alone.

The promise I made to Daphne echoes in my mind. Her voice demanding my word. ‘If they're forced to choose between me and Hope, you can't choose me. Promise me. I need your word.’

I promised. I gave her my word that I'd choose our daughter. That I'd save Hope even if it meant losing her.

I just broke that promise.

Chose my wife over our daughter. Chose the twins' mother over their sister. Chose my own desperate need for Daphne over the life we created together.

Over the daughter Daphne fought for with every breath. Over the promise that mattered enough to her that she demanded it at three in the morning after false labor sent us to the hospital.

I sink into a chair. My legs won't hold me anymore.

Our daughter's broken heart is giving out while doctors work to save her mother instead.

Because I chose. Because I couldn't keep my promise. Because when the moment came, I picked the wife I have over the daughter I've never met.

The wait is agony. Time becomes meaningless. I don't know if minutes or hours pass. The hallway stays bright and too clean and completely indifferent to the fact that my world just shattered.

Maya sits beside me at some point. Doesn't speak. Just presence. I barely register her except as a vague awareness that I'm not completely alone.

A nurse finally appears. Young. Professional. Her face carefully neutral in the way medical staff perfect when delivering information to family members.

"Mr. Hale?"

I stand. Force myself upright even though my legs shake.

"Your wife is stable. She's in recovery. You can see her now if you'd like."

Stable and alive. The choice I made worked. Daphne survived.

"Which ward?" My voice sounds disconnected from my body.

The nurse gives directions, points down a hallway and offers to walk me there. I shake my head. I can find it.

She leaves and I stand there for several more seconds before my feet start moving.

No one mentions the baby. No one says Hope's name. The nurse's careful neutrality, her focus on Daphne alone, the way she avoided my eyes when talking about recovery—the silence is answer enough.

Hope didn't make it. The choice I made meant she didn't survive.

I walk to Daphne's ward on legs that barely function. One foot in front of the other through hallways that all look the same.

Past other rooms where other families face other crises that probably feel just as world-ending.

Her room number appears. I stop outside the door. Hand on the handle. Unable to make myself open it.

What do I say? How do I face her? How do I explain that I broke my promise? That when forced to choose, I picked her over our daughter? That Hope is dead because I couldn't do what she demanded?

I force the door open.

Daphne lies in the hospital bed. Pale. Exhausted. Alive. An IV runs into her arm. Monitors beep softly tracking vitals that are apparently stable enough that she's not in ICU.

She's alive. The choice I made saved her.

Our eyes meet.

The look on her face stops me mid-step. She's not crying. Not speaking. Not reaching for me.

She's looking at me with a gaze so piercing it feels like she's trying to burn me and memorize me simultaneously.

Like she's seeing someone she doesn't recognize. Someone she needs to remember because he used to be her husband but isn't anymore.

She knows.

Someone told her. Or maybe she just knows me well enough to read the choice on my face.

To understand what my presence here—alive, whole, her husband who's still breathing—means about the decision I made.

I chose her. And that choice cost us our daughter.

"Daphne." Her name comes out broken. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I know I promised—"

I take a step forward, toward her bed, toward the apology I need to give even though it will never be enough.

The moment my foot hits the floor, a sound erupts from the corner. Sharp. Insistent. Unmistakable.

A baby's cry.

I freeze completely. My head whips toward the crib I'd dismissed as empty.

It's not empty. There's movement inside—tiny fists waving in the air, a small body shifting against hospital blankets. The cry builds, grows stronger, fills the room with proof of life I didn't think was possible.

Hope. She's alive.

My legs nearly give out. I grip the doorframe, staring at the crib I'd assumed held nothing but medical equipment. The crib that holds our daughter. Breathing. Crying. Real.

The sound freezes me completely. My brain struggles to process it. Can't make sense of what I'm hearing.

I chose Daphne. The doctor said they could save one or the other. Save Daphne meant Hope would die. That was the choice. That was what "prioritizing your wife" meant.

But that cry is real. That cry is a baby. That cry is—

It can't be. But it is.

Our daughter survived. Despite the doctor's certainty that only one could be saved. Despite my choice to save Daphne. Despite everything, our baby lived.

Relief crashes through me so intense it's physically painful. But when I look back at Daphne, the relief fractures.

Her eyes haven't changed. That same burning, memorizing gaze. That same distance that feels like a chasm opening between us.

She knows what I chose. Knows that when forced to decide, I picked her over Hope. Knows I was willing to let our baby die. Knows I broke the promise I made.

The fact that Hope survived anyway doesn't change what I was prepared to do. Doesn't erase the choice I made. Doesn't undo the moment where I looked a doctor in the eye and told him to save my wife and let my daughter die.

I start toward her. Mouth opening to explain. To apologize. To beg forgiveness for breaking my promise.

But the distance in her eyes stops me cold.

She's looking at me like she doesn't know me anymore.

Like the man she married wouldn't have made that choice.

Like I'm a stranger wearing her husband's face.

And I realize with crushing clarity: Hope is alive, but something else died in that delivery room. Something between us that might never be revived. Something broken by the choice I made and the promise I couldn't keep.

The baby's cry echoes in my ears, but all I can see is Daphne's eyes.

All I can feel is the distance.

All I know is that I saved her life but might have lost her anyway.

To be continued…