Two Little Secrets From My Boss

Chapter 175

Daphne’s POV

The contracts blur together after the third hour. Quarterly projections, vendor agreements, legal language that reads the same no matter how many times I parse it.

My back aches from sitting too long in a chair that wasn't designed for someone twenty-six weeks pregnant.

Hope has been pressing against my ribs all evening, a constant reminder of her presence that shifts from uncomfortable to painful depending on how she moves.

I reach for my water glass, taking a long drink while my eyes burn from screen glare. It's almost nine. I should have stopped two hours ago. Should be upstairs resting like every doctor has told me to do.

But work doesn't pause for high-risk pregnancies. The board meeting is tomorrow and these contracts need review tonight.

"Working late again, I see."

The voice makes me flinch, water sloshes in the glass. I set it down carefully before turning to face the doorway where Eleanor stands like a ghost no one invited.

"Eleanor." I keep my voice neutral, professional. "I didn't hear you come in."

"The house is so quiet in the evenings."

She moves into the room without asking permission, settles into the chair across from my desk with the ease of someone who considers every space in this house hers by right.

"Everyone tucked away in their own corners. It's almost peaceful."

I close my laptop. Whatever work I had left can wait. This conversation, whatever Eleanor came here to start, requires my full attention. "Did you need something?"

"Just checking in." Eleanor crosses her legs, arranges her hands in her lap with deliberate care. "You've been working such long hours. It's concerning, given your condition."

My condition. As if pregnancy is an illness, a weakness.

"I'm managing fine." The words come out sharper than intended. Exhaustion converting directly to irritation. "Was there something specific?"

"I wanted to talk to you about trust."

Eleanor's voice stays pleasant. Conversational. Like we're discussing the weather rather than whatever ambush she's preparing.

"About the importance of being careful who you trust, especially in vulnerable times."

Here we go. Another Eleanor lecture disguised as concern. Another attempt to undermine me by questioning my judgment, my relationships, my ability to lead while pregnant.

"Eleanor, I'm really too tired for whatever this is." I gesture toward the door. "Can we not do this tonight?"

"I'm simply offering motherly advice, dear." Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. "I've been watching the household dynamics with concern. Observing how you interact with the staff, how you trust certain people perhaps more than is wise."

The implication crystallizes. She's not talking about the board or business relationships. She's talking about someone in this house. Someone on staff.

"Sometimes people aren't who they seem,"

Eleanor continues, her voice taking on that quality that sounds caring but lands like calculation.

"Especially people who appear conveniently when you need them most. Who integrate themselves perfectly into your life. Who becomes indispensable at exactly the right moment."

My jaw clenches. "If you have something specific to say, say it."

"I'm saying that trust should be earned, not freely given." Eleanor leans forward slightly. "And that perhaps you're too trusting. Too willing to accept people at face value because it's easier than questioning their motives."

Eleanor is implying my judgment is compromised, that my pregnancy makes me vulnerable, blind to threats inside my own home. That I'm too distracted by my condition to see whatever dangers she's decided exist.

This is classic Eleanor—plant seeds of doubt, make me question the people I rely on, isolate me by suggesting everyone around me has ulterior motives, create paranoia where none should exist.

"Eleanor." My voice hardens. "I need you to leave. Now."

She doesn't move. She sits there with that infuriating smile, like my request is amusing rather than serious. "I understand you're tired, hormonal. Under tremendous stress with the baby's diagnosis. But that's precisely why someone needs to—"

"Leave." I stand, using the desk for support as Hope shifts position and pain shoots through my lower back. "I'm not doing this with you. Not tonight, not ever."

Eleanor stands finally, but with unhurried grace. Taking her time, maintaining control even as she's being dismissed. "I'm patient, Daphne. I can wait."

"Wait for what?"

"For the truth to come out." She smooths her skirt, adjusts her sleeves. "It always does eventually. And when it does, when you discover that your trust has been misplaced, that the people you've relied on aren't who you thought they were, I hope you'll remember this conversation."

Her voice drops lower, becomes almost gentle, almost kind. The cruelty is more effective for the packaging.

"I hope you'll remember that I tried to warn you. That I saw the danger you refused to acknowledge, that I offered you the chance to protect yourself and your family before it was too late."

Then she leaves. Heels clicking down the hallway with the steady rhythm of a countdown. Each step echoing in the quiet house like a warning I'm supposed to heed.

I sink back into my chair, hand pressed against my belly where Hope kicks lazily, oblivious to the tension her grandmother just created.

The silence Eleanor leaves behind feels thick, heavy, unsettled in ways I can't quite articulate.

But I've heard Eleanor's cryptic warnings before, dozens of times over the years.

Veiled threats disguised as concern, manipulation wrapped in maternal worry, attempts to make me doubt everyone around me so she can position herself as the only trustworthy voice.

This is just more of the same. Eleanor is trying to destabilize me, plant seeds of paranoia, make me doubt everyone who's been nothing but helpful and loyal and exactly what this family needed.

Eleanor's campaign to remove me from power has evolved from board room politics to psychological warfare.

She's trying to make me question my own judgment, my own instincts, my own ability to trust the people I've chosen to have around me.

I won't give her that satisfaction.

I open my laptop again, pull up the contracts I was reviewing. Force my attention back to the work that actually matters.

Force the unease away, the nagging feeling Eleanor's words planted, the doubt that wants to take root despite my better judgment.

Hope kicks again, harder this time, like she's reminding me what's important. What I should be focusing on.

Not Eleanor's manipulation. Not paranoid speculation about people's motives, but getting through each day, each appointment, each milestone toward a birth that terrifies me.

I return to the contracts, reading words that still blur together but at least make more sense than Eleanor's cryptic warnings.

Work demands my attention. Hope shifts again, pressing against organs that have nowhere left to go. My back screams for rest I won't give it.

And Eleanor's footsteps fade into silence, leaving behind a warning I'll ignore until it's too late to matter.