Two Little Secrets From My Boss

Chapter 184

Xander’s POV

Two AM in the hospital.

Daphne lies on the bed with wires tracking everything—her heart rate, her blood pressure, Hope's heartbeat reduced to numbers on a screen that spike and dip in patterns I don't understand but the nurses watch with careful attention.

The contractions are real. I can see them ripple across her belly, watch her face tighten with pain she's trying not to show. But they're irregular—seven minutes apart, then five, then ten. Not the steady progression that means active labor.

The doctor explains it's prodromal labor.

"Your body is preparing but not actively delivering yet. Your cervix is starting to change but slowly." He checks the monitor one more time. "This could stabilize. Could progress to active labor in days. Could be weeks."

They're not inducing unless it progresses naturally or Hope shows signs of distress.

Right now, despite the decreased movement that terrified us, her heart rate is stable. Not good, the monitor shows the irregular rhythm we've known about for weeks, but stable.

So we wait.

The contractions continue through the night. Daphne breathes through them with the focused concentration of someone trying to control something fundamentally uncontrollable.

I hold her hand, count with her when the pain peaks, feel completely useless.

By dawn, the contractions have spaced out again. Twelve minutes. Fifteen. The doctor examines Daphne one more time, and checks his notes.

"Nothing has progressed in the past four hours. You can go home." He looks between us. "But come back immediately if the contractions intensify or if you notice any further decrease in fetal movement."

The drive home happens in silence. Daphne stares out the window, one hand pressed to her belly.

I want to ask what she's thinking but the question feels intrusive. Like I'd be demanding access to thoughts she needs to keep private.

At home, I help her upstairs. She moves slowly, pausing on the landing to breathe through another contraction. Weaker now but still present. Her body is practicing for what's coming.

I expect her to collapse into bed and sleep after the exhausting night. Instead she sits on the edge of the mattress, staring at nothing. Processing something I can't see.

I sit beside her, close enough to touch but not touching. Waiting.

"If something happens during delivery," Her voice is quiet. "If they're forced to choose between me and Hope, you can't choose me."

The words land like ice water. "Daphne—"

"I need you to promise." She turns to face me finally. Her eyes are clear, certain. "If it comes down to that impossible moment, you choose our daughter."

My throat closes. "Everything's going to be fine. The doctors are prepared for complications. They've been planning for every scenario. We won't have to make that choice."

Standard comfort. The kind of thing you say to push away nightmare scenarios. To pretend the worst possibilities aren't real.

"Xander." She cuts through my reassurance like a knife. "Stop. Don't tell me it won't happen, don't give me empty comfort. Just promise me."

"The twins need their mother." The words come out rougher than intended. "Nina and Lisa can't lose you. I can't—"

"And they need their sister too." Her hand finds mine, grips tight. "They need to know we fought for her. That we gave her every chance. That we didn't sacrifice her to save me."

"Daphne…"

"Promise me." Her voice breaks slightly. "Not hypothetically, not as something we'll never face. I need your word that if the doctors ask you to choose, you choose her."

The promise she's demanding feels impossible. Like volunteering for my own execution.

Like agreeing to a future where I wake up every morning without her. Where I raise the twins alone, where every milestone and birthday and ordinary moment is marked by her absence.

I think of Nina asking if Mommy will still be their mommy if the baby dies. Of Lisa calculating grief with five-year-old logic. Of my daughters who need Daphne more than they need a sister they've never met.

I think of decades stretching forward without her. Of growing old alone. Of losing the person who makes everything else make sense.

Hope is still theoretical, still an ultrasound image and a heartbeat on a monitor and a name we've chosen for someone we haven't held. Still hope rather than reality.

Daphne is here—real, solid, the mother my daughters already have. The woman I've built my life around.

The choice she's demanding shouldn't even be a choice. But I look at her face—exhausted and terrified and absolutely certain, and I know what she needs to hear.

"I promise." The words come out quieter than intended, barely above a whisper.

Her shoulders relax fractionally. The tension that's been holding her rigid since we left the hospital eases just slightly. She closes her eyes, exhales slowly.

"Thank you."

I help her lie down, pull the covers over her despite the morning light streaming through windows. She's asleep within minutes, her breathing evening out into the rhythm of exhaustion finally claiming victory.

I sit beside her. Hand covering hers, watching her sleep. And I know I just lied to my wife.

When the moment comes, if the moment comes, I'm not sure I can keep that promise. Not sure I can look doctors in the eye and tell them to save our daughter at the cost of Daphne's life.

The twins need Daphne. I need Daphne. Hope is still an unknown, still a maybe. Still a daughter we're fighting for but haven't held, haven't seen open her eyes, haven't heard cry.

I don't know if that makes me honest or monstrous. Don't know if choosing the wife I have over the daughter I haven't met is pragmatic or unforgivable.

Don't know if Daphne would understand or if she'd hate me for breaking a promise she demanded when she was terrified and exhausted.

Right now, watching her finally sleep, watching her face relax into something almost peaceful, I just know I can't imagine choosing any other way.

I lean forward, press my forehead against our joined hands. Close my eyes against tears that won't be stopped.

I'm sorry.