Daphne’s POV
Three interviews. Three disasters.
The first candidate arrived in designer heels and a smile that faltered the moment she stepped into the foyer.
I watched her eyes wander—to the artwork on the walls, the crystal chandelier catching afternoon light, the evidence of wealth dripping from every surface.
She wasn't seeing a home. She was seeing a number with a lot of zeros.
"Mrs. Hale, thank you so much for this opportunity." She settled into the chair across from my desk, her gaze still flickering to the Rothko print behind me.
"Your home is absolutely stunning. Is that an original, or...?"
"It is." I folded my hands on the desk. "Let's talk about the children. Nina has several food allergies—tree nuts, shellfish, and she's recently shown sensitivity to certain preservatives. How would you approach meal planning and preparation with those restrictions in mind?"
"Oh, of course, absolutely."
Yeah, these were the responses she gave. She nodded vigorously, but her eyes had drifted to the window, calculating the square footage of the grounds.
"I have extensive experience with dietary restrictions. Very extensive. I once worked for a family in the Hamptons who had a child with... well, it was something similar. Gluten, I think? Or maybe dairy. Anyway, I handled it beautifully."
"Which allergen was it specifically? The approach would be quite different depending on…"
"You know, I'm blanking on the details right now, but I have references who can speak to my capabilities."
She leaned forward with manufactured warmth.
"I have to say, Mrs. Hale, I've read so much about your husband's company. The recent expansion into the Asian markets must be incredibly exciting for your family. Does Mr. Hale work from home often, or is he primarily at the office?"
I ended that interview four minutes later.
The second candidate came with a portfolio of certifications and a laser focus that should have impressed me. Instead, it made my skin crawl.
"Your daughters are four years old, correct?" She sat with perfect posture, a leather notebook open on her lap.
"And what does a typical day look like for them? When do they wake up? When does Mr. Hale usually leave for work? What time does he return?"
"I'd like to focus on the children's needs first."
I kept my voice neutral despite the alarm bells screaming in my head.
"Lisa has some sensory sensitivities—certain textures bother her, and she can become overwhelmed in loud environments. How would you handle a situation where she's having a difficult moment in public?"
"I have excellent techniques for managing behavioral issues." She made a note in her book.
"In terms of the household schedule, I like to understand the full picture. Does Mr. Hale travel frequently? Are there extended periods when you're alone with the children, or is he consistently present?"
"Why is my husband's schedule relevant to caring for my daughters?"
She didn't even blink.
"I find that understanding the family dynamics helps me provide more tailored support. For instance, if Mr. Hale works late, I might need to adjust bedtime routines accordingly. If he travels, I should be prepared for the children potentially missing their father. It's all about anticipating needs."
"I see." I stood, the universal signal that this conversation was over. "Thank you for coming in. We'll be in touch."
The third candidate had impeccable references. I'd verified them myself—glowing endorsements from three previous families, each one praising her professionalism and dedication. But something was wrong.
"I believe children thrive with structure and consistency," she said, her smile precise and unmoving.
"I would ensure Nina and Lisa feel secure, supported, and nurtured in every aspect of their development."
The words were right, the tone was right. But her eyes—God, her eyes were empty. Like someone had scooped out whatever warmth should live there and left behind a polished shell.
"What drew you to childcare as a profession?" I asked, searching her face for something real.
"I find children endlessly rewarding. Their innocence, their trust, their capacity for joy."
The smile stayed frozen in place. "I would consider it a privilege to be part of your family's life, Mrs. Hale."
My instincts screamed so loud I could barely hear my own polite rejection.
By four o'clock, exhaustion has settled into my marrow.
I stand in the kitchen scrubbing counters that are already spotless, needing to move, needing to control something when everything feels like sand slipping through my fingers.
The sponge is wearing thin, but I keep scrubbing anyway.
My phone rings. Charlotte's name lights up the screen.
"Hey." I grip the phone like a lifeline. "I was just thinking about calling you."
"I had a feeling." Her voice is warm, steady—everything I'm not right now. "Talk to me, Daph. What's going on? You've been radio silent for days, and that's not like you."
The truth pours out before I can stop it.
"Someone left a note about the twins. Someone knows where they sleep, Charlotte. Someone is watching my children, and I don't know who, and I can't find anyone to help us because every candidate is either a gold digger or a spy or something worse, and I'm so scared I can't breathe."
My voice cracks. Fragments. The raw fear I've been choking down for days finally finds its way out. "I don't know what to do. I've never not known what to do."
Charlotte doesn't offer empty comfort. She doesn't tell me everything will be fine or that I'm overreacting or that surely there's a reasonable explanation.
She just breathes with me for a moment, and then she speaks.
"Okay. First, I believe you. Whatever your gut is telling you, I believe it. Second, you're not alone in this. Xander's with you, right? And you have resources. You have people who would burn down the world to keep those girls safe."
"I know." I press my palm against my eyes. "I know that. But it doesn't stop the fear."
"Nothing stops the fear when it's your children. That fear is how you know you're a good mother."
Her voice softens. "But you can't let it paralyze you, Daph. You're one of the strongest people I know. You'll figure this out. You'll find the right person. And in the meantime, you keep fighting."
"What if I can't? What if—"
"You can and you will. That's not even a question."
I hear the front door open, footsteps in the hallway.
"Charlotte, I have to go. Xander's home."
"Call me tomorrow. And Daphne? Don’t forget to breathe. You've got this."
I hang up and find myself staring at the wall, the sponge still clutched in my white-knuckled grip. I don't turn around when Xander enters the kitchen, don't have the energy for words.
He doesn't speak either. Words are useless right now, and he knows it.
He moves behind me, his arms circling my waist, his lips pressing warmth into the curve of my neck.
I feel the tension in his body—the same fear, the same helplessness, the same desperate need to fix something unfixable.
I turn in his embrace. His eyes meet mine, dark with everything we can't say.
He lifts me onto the counter, stepping between my thighs. The kiss is hungry, edged with desperation.
His mouth traces fire down my throat while my fingers work frantically at his belt.
But then I break. The words spill out against his lips, cracked and raw.
"I can't find anyone." My voice shakes. "Three interviews today, and every single one was wrong. I don't know how to fix this, Xander. I don't know what I'm doing."
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his hands framing my face. "Hey. Don't be so hard on yourself."
"But the girls need—"
"The girls have us. They have security, they have a mother who would burn down the world to protect them."
His thumbs brush the tears I didn't realize were falling. "You're not alone in this, Daphne. We still have time. We'll find the right person."
I want to argue, want to list all the ways I'm failing. But then his forehead drops to my shoulder, and I feel the shudder that runs through him—this man who never breaks, never bends, never lets anyone see the cracks.
My fingers slide into his hair, cradling his head against me. His arms tighten around my waist, and I feel the weight of him lean into me fully—not the CEO, not the billionaire, not the man who commands boardrooms and destroys enemies. Just Xander—exhausted, terrified, human.
"We'll figure it out together," I whisper into his hair. "That's what we do."
He doesn't answer. He just holds on, his breath warm through the fabric of my blouse, his heartbeat steady against my chest.
We stay like that for a long time—wrapped around each other in our kitchen, the afternoon light fading around us, two people refusing to let go.