Daphne’s POV
The call comes at eight-thirty in the evening—Marcus, a board member who's always been straightforward with me, who doesn't play politics or dance around difficult conversations.
So when his tone shifts into something careful, something that sounds like he's picking each word with surgical precision, I know immediately something is wrong.
"Daphne." He pauses. "How are you feeling?"
"Fine. What's going on, Marcus?"
"I wanted to give you a heads up. There's an emergency board meeting scheduled for tomorrow morning. Nine AM."
My stomach drops. "Emergency meeting? About what?"
Another pause, longer this time. I can practically hear him calculating how much to say, how to phrase it without triggering... what?
My delicate pregnant condition? My hormonal instability? Whatever narrative Eleanor has been spinning about why I can't handle difficult information.
"Marcus." I make my voice firm. "I'm tired of people treating me like I'm made of glass. Just tell me."
He exhales, giving up.
"There's a proposal on the table for your temporary medical leave. Given the high-risk nature of your pregnancy and the strain of your current responsibilities, several board members believe it would be in everyone's best interest, including yours, if you stepped back until after the baby is born."
Temporary. Meaning permanent once the precedent is set. Meaning once I step back, there's no guarantee they'll let me step forward again. Meaning Eleanor wins and I lose everything I've built.
"Who proposed it?" I already know the answer.
"The proposal came through Lucinda, but..." Marcus trails off. Doesn't need to finish. We both know who's really behind it.
Who's been orchestrating this campaign for months, whispering concerns and planting doubts and positioning my pregnancy as evidence of my unfitness.
"Thank you for the warning." My voice sounds distant. Mechanical. "I appreciate the heads up."
"Daphne…"
"I'll see you tomorrow morning, Marcus. Nine AM sharp."
I hang up before he can offer sympathy I don't want. Before he can suggest that maybe stepping back isn't the worst idea, that maybe I should consider my health, that maybe they're right about the strain being too much.
I sit at my desk with my hands resting on my belly where Hope has been moving sluggishly all evening. Thirty-two weeks of pregnancy weighing on me like evidence of incompetence.
My ankles are so swollen I can barely fit into the one pair of shoes that still accommodates them. My back aches constantly—a deep, grinding pain that no position relieves.
I can't see my own feet anymore, can barely reach my keyboard over the curve of my stomach.
Eleanor has timed this perfectly.
I'm at my most physically vulnerable, my most visibly pregnant. Every board member will look at me tomorrow morning and see liability instead of leadership.
They'll see swollen ankles and exhaustion and the waddle I've developed when I walk. They'll see exactly what Eleanor wants them to see—a woman whose body has compromised her ability to lead.
And I have nothing to fight back with.
I need evidence, proof of Eleanor's manipulation, the phone calls she's been making, the concerns she's been whispering, the systematic campaign to undermine me…
Documentation that this isn't about my health or the company's wellbeing, that this is about Eleanor removing me from power while I'm too pregnant to effectively resist.
But I don't have it.
I've been fighting a war without documenting the attacks. Assuming my competence would speak for itself.
Assuming results would matter more than Eleanor's whispers. Assuming pregnancy wouldn't be weaponized against me quite this effectively.
I was wrong on all counts.
That night, I work late in my office trying to build a defense from nothing. Pulling together quarterly reports that prove my effectiveness.
Financial results that demonstrate my leadership hasn't faltered. Strategic decisions that have paid off despite Eleanor's interference.
It's not enough. I can show them numbers, but numbers don't counter the narrative Eleanor has built.
The concerned mother-in-law who just wants what's best for her grandchild. The devoted family member worried that Daphne is prioritizing ambition over the baby's survival.
I need to use the bathroom. Again. For the fourth time in two hours. Pregnancy has turned my bladder into something with the capacity of a thimble.
I push away from my desk with effort, one hand on my lower back where the pain has settled like a permanent resident.
Walk the ten feet to the private bathroom attached to my office. Handle my business with the awkward logistics that come with being thirty-two weeks pregnant.
When I return to my office, there's something on my desk that wasn't there before. A USB drive. Small, black, anonymous.
And beside it, a note, handwritten on plain paper: ‘You'll need this tomorrow. —M’
Maya.
I pick up the drive with hands that want to shake. Look around my office like someone might still be here, watching, waiting to see what I do with this gift.
But the room is empty, the door still closed. No indication of how the drive appeared or when Maya slipped in to leave it.
I plug the drive into my computer, watch the files populate on my screen.
Recorded phone calls. Eleanor's voice is clear and unmistakable as she expresses "concern" to board members.
As she suggests my judgment might be compromised. As she plants seeds of doubt with surgical precision.
Email trails. Messages between Eleanor and various board members, investors, colleagues. Each one carefully worded, deniable if confronted directly, but damning when compiled together.
Financial transactions. Small amounts redirected through accounts Eleanor controls. Not enough to trigger immediate audits individually, but substantial when aggregated. Evidence of embezzlement that would destroy her completely.
Witness statements. Staff members documenting conversations where Eleanor undermined me. Dates, times, exact quotes. A pattern of systematic sabotage laid out with forensic precision.
Eleanor's entire campaign was documented in excruciating detail. Every phone call I suspected but couldn't prove.
Every whispered concern I knew existed but couldn't trace. Every move in her chess game to remove me from power—all of it here, compiled, organized, ready to present as evidence.
Maya has been watching, collecting, building a case I didn't even know I needed.
I stare at the screen, then at the note beside my keyboard, that single initial. M. Questions flood my mind.
What is Maya's motivation? Why would my assistant risk this kind of exposure—because accessing this information, recording these conversations, compiling this evidence would have required significant risk. Why would she help me against Eleanor when staying neutral would be safer?
What does she want in return?
But those questions can wait. Tomorrow morning, I'll walk into that boardroom armed with truth instead of defenseless against lies.
I'll have documentation of Eleanor's manipulation. Proof that the proposal for my "temporary" medical leave has nothing to do with my health and everything to do with Eleanor's campaign to control the family business.
I'll have ammunition.
I copy the files to three separate locations—my laptop, the company server, a cloud backup Eleanor doesn't know exists. Can't risk losing this if the drive disappears or gets damaged.
Then I start building my presentation for tomorrow. Not defensive, not pleading, just methodical documentation of exactly what Eleanor has been doing and exactly why the board is being manipulated.
It takes three hours. By the time I finish, it's past midnight. My back screams in protest when I finally stand.
Hope has stopped moving entirely, which terrifies me until I feel a sluggish kick against my ribs. Still there. Still fighting.
I save everything, back it up again for good measure, look at the note one more time before tucking it into my desk drawer.
‘You'll need this tomorrow. —M’
I have no idea what Maya wants in return for this. No idea why she'd risk everything to help me. No idea if I can trust her completely or if this is part of some larger game I don't understand yet.
Right now, I'm too grateful to care.
Tomorrow morning, Eleanor expects to walk into that boardroom and watch me crumble under the weight of her careful campaign. Expects to see me accept "temporary" medical leave with the grace of someone who knows they're beaten.
She's going to be very surprised.