Xander’s POV
I leave Archie's apartment and drive home in silence. My hands grip the steering wheel, processing what I just learned while trying to keep my face neutral, my breathing steady. The professional mask I've perfected over fifteen years of business dealings.
Maya. The woman we trusted with our children. The woman who played with Nina and Lisa, who held Hope, who Daphne relied on completely. The woman who sent those threatening notes.
The notes that terrified Daphne during her high-risk pregnancy. While she was carrying Hope, already drowning in fear that our daughter might not survive.
Maya created that chaos deliberately. Added to my wife's terror as a strategy, as pressure, as part of some six-year mission for revenge against a crime I didn't commit.
My jaw clenches so hard it aches. I force myself to breathe, to focus on the road instead of the rage building in my chest.
Hope first, deal with Maya later. That's what I told Archie, and I meant it.
But sitting with the knowledge of what she did, what she put Daphne through, what she put all of us through, makes every protective instinct I have scream for immediate action.
I pull into the driveway. The house looks peaceful, normal. Inside, my family is going about their day, unaware that the person they've trusted for months has been a threat all along.
I find Daphne in the nursery feeding Hope. She looks up when I enter, and her smile fades immediately when she sees my face.
"What's wrong?"
I close the door behind me. Lean against it for a moment, gathering the words.
"It's about Maya."
Daphne's expression shifts to concern. "Is she okay? Did something happen?"
"She's not who we thought she was."
I cross to where Daphne sits in the rocking chair, Hope cradled against her chest.
"Her real name is Maya Morrison. Her sister Lora died six years ago—Lora was the woman connected to Gerald's operations, the one who was used as leverage against me. Maya has been here on a mission. To gather evidence against me, to infiltrate our family, to…"
I pause, force myself to say it. "To destroy us."
I watch Daphne's face transform. Confusion giving way to disbelief, disbelief to horror, horror to something cold and sharp. "What are you talking about?"
I tell her everything Archie told me—the patron who recruited Maya, the six-year plan, the systematic infiltration. And then the part that makes my voice harden despite my attempt to stay calm.
"The threatening notes about the twins, the ones that terrified you during your pregnancy—Maya sent them."
Daphne goes completely still. Her hands shake where they hold Hope, and I see her grip tighten on our daughter like she needs something solid to hold onto.
"She…" Daphne's voice comes out strangled. "She sent those notes? While I was pregnant? While I was already…" She can't finish, just stares at me with an expression that's half devastation, half pure fury.
"Yes."
"Where is she?" The question comes out sharp, clipped. "Where is Maya right now?"
"Gone." I force myself to tell her the rest. "Archie confronted her last night and she confessed everything. He gave her twenty-four hours to leave before telling us."
"He what?!" Daphne's voice rises, and Hope stirs against her chest. Daphne immediately adjusts, lowering her voice but not her intensity. "He gave her a head start? Let her escape?"
"He made a judgment call. Hope's diagnosis, everything we're dealing with—he thought we couldn't handle this on top of it. And he…" I pause. "He's in love with her, Daphne."
Daphne opens her mouth to argue, to say something about Archie's betrayal or Maya's escape or how we should be hunting her down right now instead of sitting here…
Then Hope begins crying.
Not her normal cry. The weak, labored sound that's become terrifyingly familiar over the past week. The cry that means her heart is struggling, her body can't keep up, something is wrong.
All the anger drains from Daphne's face, replaced by immediate terror. She adjusts Hope's position, trying to soothe her, but our daughter's cry intensifies. Her tiny chest heaves with the effort of breathing. Her face starts going red.
"Her medication," I say, already moving. "When was the last dose?"
"Two hours ago." Daphne stands, pacing with Hope. "It shouldn't be wearing off yet. Something's wrong, Xander."
I check the time, calculate dosing windows. We're not due for another dose for four more hours, but Hope is clearly in distress. I grab the thermometer—temperature is normal. Check her color—not blue, but not right either.
"Hold her upright," I tell Daphne. "Like the doctor showed us. It helps her breathe."
Daphne repositions Hope so she's more vertical against her chest. Our daughter's crying doesn't stop but shifts slightly, becomes less labored. We stand there together in the nursery, both of us focused entirely on Hope, on counting her breaths, on watching for any sign she's getting worse.
Twenty minutes pass. Thirty. Hope's crying gradually subsides into whimpers, then exhausted silence. She falls asleep against Daphne's chest, breathing still too fast but no longer that terrible labored gasping.
Daphne sinks back into the rocking chair, Hope cradled carefully. I kneel beside them, one hand on Hope's back, feeling the rapid rise and fall of her breathing.
We stay like that until we're both certain she's stable. Until the terror recedes enough that we can think about anything other than our daughter's immediate survival.
Finally, Daphne looks at me across the small space of the nursery. Her voice is quiet, almost calm, but I hear the fury underneath.
"We should hunt Maya down. Track her, find her, make her pay for what she did to us. To our family."
"Yes," I agree immediately. "We should."
"But not now." Daphne's eyes drop to Hope, sleeping fitfully against her chest. "Not while she needs us like this."
"No. Not now." I reach out, cover Daphne's hand with mine. "Hope is the priority. Keeping her alive, keeping her stable—that matters more than revenge. More than justice. More than anything."
"Right now, our daughter needs us." Daphne finishes the thought, her hand squeezing mine. "You're right. Hope comes first."
The anger doesn't disappear. I can see it still simmering in Daphne's eyes, feel it echoing in my own chest.
Maya terrorized my wife, threatened my children, infiltrated my home and family with malicious intent. Every instinct I have screams for immediate action, for hunting her down and ensuring she pays for what she's done.
But Hope makes a small sound in her sleep, her tiny chest rising and falling too quickly, and all of that becomes secondary.
We're united in our fury. But we're more united in our purpose—keeping our daughter alive and stable. Everything else can wait.
That night, after Hope's evening medication and the twins' bedtime routine, Daphne and I collapse into bed. We don't talk about Maya. Don't plan revenge or discuss legal options or strategize how to find her.
We just lie there in the dark, hands clasped between us, and focus on the sound of Hope's breathing through the baby monitor. Still too fast. Still labored. But steady. Alive.
Her fingers tighten on mine, and I hold on, anchoring us both.
Tomorrow brings medication schedules and doctor's appointments and the exhausting vigilance of monitoring a sick infant. Tomorrow brings the ongoing crisis of Hope's failing heart.
Maya's betrayal can wait. Justice can wait. Revenge can wait.
Our daughter can't.