Daphne's POV
The hospital has become a place of accumulated dread—every visit adding another layer of fear to the antiseptic smell and fluorescent lights.
We return home in the early afternoon. The contractions that gripped me in the boardroom—the ones that felt so real, so urgent—turned out to be false labor. Braxton Hicks intensified by stress and adrenaline.
My cervix hasn't changed, Hope's heart rate is stable. The doctor sent us home with instructions to rest and monitor, but no immediate concern.
"You gave everyone quite a scare," Xander says as he helps me out of the car. His hand is steady under my elbow even though I can see the residual tension in his jaw.
"I gave myself a scare." I pause on the front steps, one hand pressed to my belly where Hope has resumed her sluggish movements. "For a moment I thought..."
I don't finish the sentence, I don't need to. Xander's arm comes around my waist, pulling me close despite the belly between us.
Inside, the house is quiet. The twins are at school, Mom is out running errands. It's just us and the silence that feels almost strange after months of constant crisis.
I change out of my professional armor—the too-tight heels, the maternity suit that cost too much and will only be worn a few more times.
I put on soft clothes that don't restrict or bind, feel my body relax by degrees as the day's adrenaline finally drains away.
Eleanor is gone. The board meeting ended with me still standing, still in control. Her exit removed a poison that's been seeping into every corner of my life for months.
But something nags at me as I sit on the couch, feet propped up on pillows Xander arranged. Something about how easily Eleanor surrendered, how quickly she gathered her things and left without more of a fight.
This is a woman who's spent months orchestrating my removal. Who planted seeds with surgical precision. Who weaponized my pregnancy and turned board members into pawns in her campaign.
Who fought for what she believed was her right—control of the family business, protection of her son's legacy, removal of the daughter-in-law who never quite measured up.
And she just... left. Walked out with barely a word, accepted defeat when Eleanor doesn't accept anything without exhausting every possible avenue first.
It's weird, more than weird, and almost suspicious.
"Hey." Xander's voice pulls me from spiraling thoughts. He sits beside me, hand finding mine. "Where'd you go?"
"Just thinking."
"About?"
"Eleanor. She gave up too easily, don’t you think?"
Xander's thumb traces circles on my palm. "You won. She lost. Maybe sometimes it's that simple."
"Nothing with Eleanor is ever simple."
Xander shifts closer, his free hand coming up to cup my face. His eyes hold mine—dark, intense, carrying something that makes my breath catch.
He kisses me—soft at first, gentle, but with an undercurrent of desperation that mirrors my own.
I kiss him back, pushing thoughts of Eleanor away. Right now, I just want this, want him. Want to feel something other than fear and exhaustion and the constant weight of impossible choices.
When we break apart, both breathing harder, Xander's eyes search my face. "Upstairs?"
"Yes."
He helps me stand. Supports my weight as we climb the stairs slowly. By the time we reach our bedroom, another Braxton Hicks contraction tightens across my belly. I pause, breathing through it, and Xander just waits.
In our room, evening light streams through windows we haven't bothered to close. Xander helps me to the bed, eases me down onto the mattress with careful hands.
"Tell me what you need." His voice is soft. "What feels good."
"You," I say simply. "Just you touching me like I'm not made of glass."
He leans down, captures my mouth in a kiss that's deeper than before. Less gentle, more honest about the need we've been suppressing under layers of fear and medical appointments and crisis management.
His hands move to the soft shirt I'm wearing—one of his old t-shirts that's the only thing that fits comfortably anymore. He lifts it slowly, breaking the kiss long enough to pull it over my head.
I'm not wearing a bra—gave up on those weeks ago when everything started fitting wrong and hurting in ways that made them unbearable.
Xander's eyes darken as he looks at me—my breasts swollen and heavy, my belly impossibly round, my body so changed from what it was that sometimes I don't recognize myself.
But he looks at me like I'm beautiful, like pregnancy hasn't made me less but somehow more.
"You're stunning." The words come out reverent. "Absolutely stunning."
Then his mouth is on my skin, kissing my collarbone, the swell of my breast. His tongue circles my nipple—sensitive, almost too sensitive—and I gasp.
His hand spans my belly, tests there with gentle pressure while his mouth continues exploring. Every kiss feels deliberate, worshipful, like he's memorizing me through touch.
I arch into him as much as I can, my hands find his hair, threading through it, holding him to me.
"Xander." His name comes out breathless.
He pulls back just enough to look at me. "What do you need?"
"More. I need more."
He sheds his own clothes quickly, efficiently. Then he's back, skin against skin, the warmth of him chasing away chill I didn't realize I was feeling.
His hands map territory he knows intimately but treats like discovery anyway. The curve of my hip, the sensitive skin of my inner thigh.
Between my legs where I'm already wet, already wanting despite exhaustion and discomfort and all the reasons this should be the furthest thing from my mind.
His fingers find the place that makes me moan. Gentle circles, pressure that builds slowly.
His mouth stays busy too—kissing my neck, my shoulder, murmuring words I can't quite hear over my own breathing but feel anyway.
The pleasure builds gradually. Not urgent, not desperate—just steady and real and grounding. Reminding me my body can feel good things, can experience a sensation that isn't pain or fear or grief.
When I come, it's like exhaling after holding my breath too long. A release that goes deeper than physical. My vision blurs with tears I didn't expect.
Xander kisses them away. "I've got you. I've got you."
"I need you inside me." The words come out shaky. Raw. "Please. I need to feel you."
He positions himself carefully. Mindful of my belly, of the logistics that make this complicated, of my comfort over everything else. When he finally slides inside, we both go still.
"Okay?" His voice is strained with the effort of holding back.
"More than okay."
He moves slowly, each thrust measured, controlled. Like he's afraid of hurting me even though we both know this is safe, that intimacy won't harm Hope, that my body needs this connection as much as my heart does.
I meet him as much as I can, my hands grip his shoulders. His arms brace on either side of me, careful not to put weight on my belly.
The angle is perfect—hitting places that make me cry out, that build pleasure on top of what I already felt.
"Look at me." His voice commands. "Daphne. Eyes on me."
I open my eyes to meet his gaze. The intimacy of it nearly breaks me. This isn't just sex. This is connection, proof that we're still us underneath the crisis and the fear and the impossible choices we keep having to make.
His rhythm increases slightly, still controlled but with more urgency. I can see him holding back, trying to make this last, trying to give me everything I need.
"I love you." The words fall from my lips. "I love you so much."
"I love you." He bends to kiss me without breaking rhythm. "Always. No matter what happens. Always."