Daphne’s POV
The shift is subtle at first. So subtle I almost miss it, which is probably the point.
Lucinda approaches me after the quarterly meeting, her heels clicking on the polished floor as she falls into step beside me.
We're walking toward the conference room exit, the rest of the board members dispersing behind us in clusters of expensive suits and calculated conversations.
"Daphne, do you have a moment?" Her voice is warm, concerned, the tone of a friend rather than a colleague. We've known each other for three years. She's always been professional, competent, pleasant. Never warm.
I slow my pace, turning to face her. "Of course. What's on your mind?"
"I wanted to ask how you're managing." She gestures vaguely toward my midsection, where the pregnancy is visible now beneath my dress.
"With everything. The workload must be significant, especially given your... circumstances."
The pause before "circumstances" is deliberate, careful. Like she's selecting a word that won't sound judgmental while absolutely being judgmental.
"I'm managing well, thank you." I keep my smile pleasant, professional. "The team has been incredibly supportive."
"Of course, of course." She nods, but her eyes don't quite match her expression.
"It's just—have you considered delegating more responsibilities? Just temporarily, while you focus on your health? No one would think less of you for prioritizing the pregnancy. In fact, I think most people would see it as the responsible choice."
The words are wrapped in sympathy, packaged in concern, delivered with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes.
But underneath, I hear something else. Something that makes my spine straighten and my instincts start screaming.
Doubt. She's questioning whether I can handle my role, whether I should handle it.
"I appreciate your concern," I say, keeping my voice level. "But I'm confident in my ability to manage both. If that changes, you'll be the first to know."
She nods again, touches my arm gently—a gesture that's meant to seem supportive but feels invasive. "Of course. I just worry. We all do."
We. Plural, not just her concern. A collective worry she's speaking on behalf of.
I watch her walk away, heels clicking down the hallway, and file the interaction in the part of my brain that's learned to recognize threats even when they come dressed in friendly concern.
The next day, Harrison corners me by the elevators. He's on the board, influential, someone whose opinion carries weight with investors.
We've always had a cordial relationship—professional respect without personal warmth.
"Daphne." He steps into my path as I'm about to enter the elevator, forcing me to stop. "A word?"
I can already see it on his face—the careful concern, the measured tone he's preparing to use. I've been through this twice already this week. I know exactly where this is going.
"Harrison."
I turn to face him fully, keeping my voice pleasant but firm.
"I know what you want to say, and I appreciate the concern. But I'm already managing it. My personal situation is under control, my work performance hasn't slipped, and I have excellent medical care monitoring both the pregnancy and my workload."
He blinks, clearly thrown by having his speech preempted. "Daphne, I don't think you understand."
"I do understand."
I keep my smile in place, professional, unshakeable.
"There are concerns about whether I should be maintaining my current responsibilities during a high-risk pregnancy. Whether it's too much stress, whether it's fair to the company, whether I should consider stepping back. Did I miss anything?"
His jaw tightens slightly. "The board…"
"The board has my quarterly reports. They have my performance metrics. They have evidence of exactly how well I'm handling everything."
I shift my briefcase to my other hand, a subtle signal that this conversation is ending.
"If anything changes—if my health requires it, if my doctor advises it—I will be the first to address it. But right now, I'm exactly where I need to be, doing exactly what I'm capable of doing."
"I see." His voice cools several degrees. "I was simply trying to—"
"To help. I understand." My smile doesn't waver. "And I appreciate it. But there's no need to be concerned, Harrison. I've got this handled."
I step around him into the elevator, pressing the button for the lobby. He doesn't follow, and as the doors slide closed, I catch his expression—frustration mixed with something that looks like grudging respect.
I ride the elevator down alone, my reflection staring back at me from the polished doors. My hand moves to rest on the curve of my belly, an unconscious gesture I've developed over the past weeks.
The phone call comes two days later.
I'm at my desk, reviewing contracts, when David Reeves calls. We've known each other for years—served on a charity board together, attended the same industry conferences, had drinks after work events where we commiserated about the politics of our respective companies.
He's always been direct with me, honest even when it's uncomfortable.
"Daphne." His voice is careful when I answer. "I wanted to give you a heads up about something I've been hearing."
My stomach tightens. "What kind of something?"
"There's talk. Quiet talk, but talk nonetheless." He pauses, like he's choosing his words carefully.
"Some people are worried about leadership stability at your company during such a difficult personal time. Questions about whether someone in your position should be taking on so much stress—whether it's fair to the shareholders, to the company, even to your family."
"Some people." I keep my voice neutral. "Anyone specific?"
"I'm not going to name names, Daphne. I'm calling as a friend, not as a source. But the concern is real, it's making rounds in circles that matter. I thought you should know."
After the call ends, I sit at my desk, hand resting on the curve of my belly, mind racing through recent interactions. Conversations I dismissed. Looks I ignored. Questions that seemed innocuous at the time.
The pattern emerges like a photograph in developer fluid. Slowly at first, then all at once.
Eleanor's visit three weeks ago. She'd arrived with pastries from my favorite bakery, concern etched into every carefully made-up line of her face.
So worried about my health, so thoughtful in asking whether the stress of running a company was wise given the circumstances.
The subtle implication that perhaps I was being selfish, choosing ambition over the baby's wellbeing. Choosing career over my unborn daughter's survival.
I'd dismissed it then as typical Eleanor behavior. Her need to control, to insert herself into situations where she didn't belong, to position herself as the concerned matriarch.
Now I see it for what it was—the opening salvo in a war I didn't know we were fighting.
Eleanor has been making calls. Planting seeds with board members, with colleagues, with anyone whose opinion carries weight.
Whispering concerns always couched in motherly worry, always positioned as care for Xander's family.
Never saying anything directly actionable, never making accusations she could be held accountable for.
Just gentle suggestions that maybe I'm not fit for this. Maybe pregnancy makes me vulnerable, distracted, incapable of leading.
Maybe someone should step in. For my own good, of course. For the baby's good. For everyone's good.
She's turned my high-risk pregnancy into a weapon, taken the most vulnerable, terrifying situation of my life and weaponized it against me–brilliant, untraceable, perfectly Eleanor.
I have no proof. Just a pattern of too-careful questions and strategic concern. Just the knowledge that my mother-in-law is waging a war I can't fight openly without looking paranoid or defensive.
I rest both hands on my belly now, feeling the flutter of movement inside. Our daughter, the baby Eleanor is using as justification to destroy me professionally while pretending to protect her.
She thinks pregnancy makes me vulnerable, thinks I'll fold, step back, play the role of dutiful mother-to-be while she orchestrates my professional dismantling.
Eleanor’s about to learn how spectacularly wrong she is.
I pick up my phone, start making my own calls. Not to defend myself—that would be playing Eleanor's game on her terms.
I'm going to remind every person on that board exactly why they backed me in the first place. Going to show them results that speak louder than whispered concerns.
And I'm going to do it while growing a human being whose heart doesn't work right, while loving a husband who's terrified of losing us both, while fighting for my daughter's sixty percent chance at life.
Eleanor wanted a war? She's got one. But this time, she picked the wrong opponent.