Two Little Secrets From My Boss

Chapter 195

Daphne’s POV

I find Xander in Hope's nursery late one evening, standing by the crib with one hand resting on the railing. The mobile spins slowly above him—the soft animals we chose together, their gentle rotation casting shadows on the yellow walls we painted weeks ago.

He doesn't turn when I enter, but his shoulders relax slightly. Recognition without needing to look.

"Couldn't sleep?" I ask quietly, moving to stand beside him.

"Thinking," he says, his thumb traces the wood grain of the crib rail. "About her. About what comes after."

After. The word hangs between us—heavy with implications we usually avoid. After the delivery. After the surgeries. After we know if our daughter survives or if this room becomes a memorial instead of a nursery.

"Tell me," I say softly.

He's quiet for a moment. I watch his profile, the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes stay fixed on the empty crib like he's willing our daughter into existence through sheer force of will.

Then: "I want to take her to the beach. When she's old enough. Not one of those crowded tourist beaches, but somewhere quiet. Somewhere we can teach her to collect shells and build sandcastles that the tide washes away."

The image forms so clearly it hurts—Hope, toddler-sized, her little hands full of sand, laughing as waves chase her feet.

"She'll love it," I whisper. "The twins did."

My hand finds his on the crib rail. Our fingers intertwine.

"And I want her to go to the same preschool Nina and Lisa went to."

His voice is steady but I can hear the effort it costs.

"Mrs. Patterson's class. The one with the reading corner and the garden where they plant vegetables. I want her to come home covered in dirt, proud of tomatoes she grew herself."

I lean against him, feeling the solid warmth of his shoulder supporting me.

"She'll make friends," I add, picking up the thread he's weaving. "Probably the loud, adventurous kind like Nina gravitates toward. Or maybe quiet, thoughtful ones like Lisa prefers. Or both. She'll have her own personality, her own way of moving through the world."

Hope shifts inside me, a gentle roll that reminds us she's listening.

"Piano lessons," Xander continues. "Or violin, or guitar—whatever she wants. I want to hear her practice scales badly for months before it starts sounding like music."

"Family dinners where she complains about homework." My throat tightens but I keep going. "Birthday parties with too much sugar. Dance recitals where she's nervous backstage."

His grip on my hand tightens.

"Her first day of kindergarten." His voice drops lower. "Middle school drama. High school graduation. College acceptance letters."

We're building a future out of words—constructing Hope's entire life in this quiet room while she moves inside me, oblivious to the desperate hope her parents are weaving around her uncertain existence.

"Christmas mornings," I whisper. "All three girls racing downstairs. Hope trying to keep up with her big sisters."

Tears blur my vision. I blink them back, not wanting to miss this moment, this fragile act of faith we're performing together.

"Teaching her to ride a bike." Xander's voice roughens with emotion. "Running beside her until she finds her balance. Letting go even though it terrifies me."

"First heartbreak." The words catch in my throat. "Watching her cry over someone who wasn't worth her tears and not being able to fix it."

He pulls me closer, his free arm wrapping around my shoulders.

"Her wedding," he says quietly. "If she wants one. Walking her down an aisle, watching her choose someone, having to trust that they'll love her the way she deserves."

The futures we're imagining feel both achingly real and impossibly fragile. Every milestone we name is built on the foundation of survival—of Hope making it through delivery, through the surgeries, through the first critical year.

Of fifty percent odds becoming one hundred percent reality.

"Grandchildren," I add softly. "Hope bringing her own babies to visit. Nina and Lisa as aunts. Our family growing in ways we can't predict."

Hope moves again between us, stronger this time, like she's affirming these futures we're building for her.

Xander turns to face me finally. In the dim nursery light, his eyes are bright with unshed tears.

"All of it," he says. "I want all of it for her. Every ordinary moment, every milestone. Every beautiful, mundane day of a long, happy life."

"Me too." My voice breaks. "God, me too."

He cups my face with both hands, his thumbs brushing away tears I didn't realize had fallen.

"We're going to fight for all of it," he murmurs. "Every vacation, every school day, every birthday. We're going to give her every chance at every single moment we just imagined."

I nod, pressing my forehead against his.

"She's going to have it," I whisper. "She's going to have all of it."

He pulls me into a proper embrace then, careful of my belly, his arms wrapping around me like he can shield us both from uncertainty. I feel Hope shift between us—a reminder that she's here now, alive now, fighting her own battle from inside my body.

We stand like that for several minutes. Not speaking. Just holding each other in the nursery we built with such careful hope. The mobile continues its slow rotation. The nightlight casts its warm glow across yellow walls.

When Xander finally speaks again, his voice is barely audible.

"I'm terrified."

The admission cracks something open in my chest.

"Me too," I breathe against his shoulder.

"But I'd rather be terrified and hoping than give up before we even try." His arms tighten around me. "I'd rather imagine her whole life and risk losing it than never imagine it at all."

I pull back just enough to see his face. His jaw is tight, his eyes intense with determination and fear in equal measure.

"The beach," I say firmly. "The preschool. The bike. The heartbreak. The wedding. All of it."

"All of it," he echoes.

Hope kicks hard enough that we both feel it. Xander's hand moves to my belly, spanning the curve where our daughter grows.

"You hear that?" he says softly, speaking to my stomach now. "Your mother and I have big plans for you. You've got beaches to visit and bikes to learn and a whole life waiting. So you keep fighting, okay? You keep growing. You keep that broken heart of yours beating."

My tears fall freely now. I don't try to stop them.

"We're not giving up on you," I add, my own hand covering Xander's. "No matter what the statistics say. No matter how scared we are. We believe in every single future we just imagined."

The mobile spins above the empty crib. The yellow walls wait. And we stand together in the space between fear and hope, building futures for a daughter who has to survive before any of it becomes real.

But tonight, in this room, with Hope moving between us, we choose to believe she will.

We choose to believe in beaches and birthdays and graduations. In ordinary Tuesday mornings and extraordinary milestones. In a whole life stretched ahead like a promise we're determined she'll keep.

The nursery holds our hope like a prayer. And we hold each other like the anchor we've always been, refusing to let go even when everything feels uncertain.

Especially then.