Xander’s POV
I have negotiated with world leaders, faced down hostile boards, and stared into the eyes of men who wanted me destroyed. None of it prepared me for making small talk with my father-in-law over coffee.
Robert Carter sits across from me in the study, declining the expensive bourbon I offered in favor of black coffee. He holds the mug like a weapon—steady, purposeful, ready to be deployed at a moment's notice.
His eyes haven't stopped moving since he entered the room, cataloguing exits and sight lines even while maintaining conversation.
"How many security personnel on-site at any given time?" he asks, setting down his mug with precise deliberation.
"Six during the day, eight at night. Plus Archie's team running surveillance from the east wing."
I match his directness. There's no point in softening facts for a man who's spent his life cutting through bureaucratic nonsense.
"We have rotating shifts to prevent pattern recognition, and everyone's been vetted through three separate agencies."
"Who vetted the new assistant? Maya?"
"Daphne handled the interviews personally. Background check came through clean—no flags, no inconsistencies. Her references were solid, and she's been exemplary with the twins."
Robert's expression doesn't change, but I catch the slight tightening around his eyes. "References can be manufactured. Backgrounds can be constructed. How well do you actually know this woman?"
"Well enough to trust Daphne's judgment." The words come out more defensive than I intended. "My wife has excellent instincts. If she says Maya is trustworthy, I believe her."
"Fair enough. Your wife does have good instincts—she kept those girls alive and healthy for years without any help from you."
He takes another sip of coffee. "What about camera coverage? Where are the blind spots?"
The question stings more than the implied criticism. I pull up the security schematic on my tablet, turning it so he can see.
"We've addressed most of the vulnerabilities Archie identified last week. There was a gap near the garden entrance, but that's been corrected. The only remaining concern is the service corridor by the kitchen—we're waiting on equipment to arrive."
"How long?"
"Three days, maybe four."
"That's too long." Robert leans forward, pointing to a section of the blueprint. "This corridor connects to the main house through what—two doorways? Three?"
"Two. One leads to the kitchen, the other to the staff quarters."
"And both are accessible from the exterior without passing through monitored zones." He shakes his head.
"You've got decent bones here, but there are gaps a determined adversary could exploit. I've seen safer setups protecting mid-level diplomats."
Coming from anyone else, the criticism would rankle. But Robert doesn't speak the language of social niceties—he speaks threat assessment with the fluency of a man who spent decades protecting things that mattered.
His bluntness isn't rudeness. It's efficiency.
"What would you recommend?" I ask, genuinely curious.
He looks up, surprise flickering across his features before he masks it. Apparently, he expected more resistance.
"Additional cameras in the service corridor, obviously. Motion sensors on both access doors—not just alarms, but silent alerts that ping directly to your security team. And I'd want a secondary checkpoint between the staff quarters and the main house. Anyone moving through that corridor should be logged and verified."
"That's invasive for the staff."
"Your children's safety is more important than your housekeeper's convenience." He sets down his mug with finality.
"I spent thirty years in environments where a single oversight could cost lives. The people who survived were the ones who accepted that security is uncomfortable. The ones who prioritized politeness are the ones I had to notify families about."
The words land heavily. I think of Nina and Lisa, their faces when they wake from nightmares, the trust in their eyes when they reach for my hand.
The idea of failing them, of being the father who prioritized appearances over their safety, makes my chest tighten.
"I'll have Archie implement your recommendations by the end of the day tomorrow," I say. "Whatever resources you need, you'll have them."
Robert studies me for a long moment. I resist the urge to fidget under his assessment—a sensation I haven't felt since my own father's rare visits to my childhood bedroom, checking report cards with that same measuring gaze.
"You love them," he says finally, not a question.
"More than anything I've ever built. More than anything I'll ever build."
"And Daphne?"
"She's the reason any of it matters." I meet his eyes directly. "I know I didn't earn her, Robert. I know our history is complicated, and I know she raised those girls alone because I wasn't there. But I'm here now. And I will spend the rest of my life making sure they never doubt how much they're loved."
The silence stretches. Robert's expression gives nothing away.
"I've been doing some research on you," he says. "Your early career, the deals you made to build your company. Some of them were..." He pauses, choosing his words. "Morally flexible."
"They were." There's no point in lying. "I was young, hungry, and willing to compromise in ways I'm not proud of. I told myself the ends justified the means. I was wrong."
"Every man carries weight from his past." Robert's voice softens—barely perceptibly, but I catch it. "What matters is whether he's strong enough to carry his future too. Whether he learns from the weight instead of collapsing under it."
Something unfamiliar loosens in my chest. Approval I didn't know I was seeking, from a man whose opinion shouldn't matter but somehow does.
"If you ever hurt my daughter or those girls," Robert adds, his tone shifting back to steel, "I know how to hide a body. I know several ways, actually. The Marines were very thorough in their training."
I should probably be intimidated. Instead, I find myself smiling.
"Understood, sir."
That night, I find Daphne in our bedroom, brushing her hair at the vanity. I watch her for a moment from the doorway—the graceful movement of her arm, the way the lamplight catches the auburn in her hair, the peace in her expression that wasn't there this morning.
I wonder how I survived before her. I can't remember what that life felt like anymore.
"Your father likes me," I say.
She catches my eye in the mirror, her lips curving. "He tolerates you, there's a difference. Trust me, I grew up with the man—I know his gradations of approval."
"He said I have 'decent bones.'"
"High praise from Robert Carter." She sets down the brush and turns to face me, amusement dancing in her eyes. "He told my mother you're 'not as useless as expected.' That's practically a declaration of love."
I cross to her, pull her up from the vanity seat, wrap my arms around her. She comes easily, melting against me with the trust of someone who has stopped questioning whether she'll be caught.
"I told him about the early days," I admit quietly, my chin resting on her hair. "The compromises. The things I did to build the company. I expected him to judge me."
"And?"
"He said every man carries weight from his past. What matters is whether he's strong enough to carry his future too." My voice roughens. "Then he said if I ever hurt you or the girls, he knows how to hide a body."
Daphne laughs, really laughs, and the sound unknots something that's been coiled in my chest for days.
"That's definitely a declaration of love," she says against my shoulder.
We stand there in the quiet of our bedroom, just holding each other. Her heartbeat against my chest, my chin resting on her hair.
The simple, profound intimacy of two people who have chosen each other completely.
"I love you," I murmur into her hair. "I don't say it enough, I know I don't say it enough. But I need you to know—everything I'm doing, everything I'm fighting for, it's you. It's always been you."
Daphne pulls back just enough to look at me. Her eyes are bright with unshed tears.
"I know," she whispers. "I've always known."
She kisses me then—soft, unhurried, full of promise rather than desperation. When we finally pull apart, foreheads resting together, we don't need words.
Some things are bigger than language.