Xander’s POV
A week passes in a blur of medication schedules and doctor's appointments.
The twins adjust to their baby sister needing extra attention—Nina brings her favorite stuffed dragon to Hope's crib each morning, Lisa updates her medication chart with meticulous precision.
Life finds a fragile rhythm that feels like it could shatter at any moment but somehow holds.
The conversation happens after dinner, after the girls are all asleep, after Daphne and I finally have space to think about anything beyond immediate survival.
We're in the living room, wine glasses half-empty, the baby monitor on the coffee table between us showing Hope's steady breathing. For now.
"I've been thinking about Maya," I say, and Daphne's expression hardens immediately. "About hiring a private investigator. Someone who can find her, track what she's doing. So when we're ready to deal with her properly, we know where she is."
Daphne considers this, her fingers tracing the rim of her wine glass. "Do you think she's still in the area?"
"I doubt it. If she has any sense, she's disappeared completely. New city, new identity, whatever resources her patron provided." The words taste bitter. "But she'll leave a trail. People always do. A good investigator can follow it."
"Then yes." Daphne's voice is firm. "Hire someone. I want to know where she is, what she's doing, whether she's…" She stops, takes a breath. "I just want to know."
I pull out my phone, find the contact for David Sterling—the private investigator I've used before for corporate matters. Discreet, thorough, exactly what we need. My thumb hovers over the call button.
Then I hear it.
Hope's crying through the monitor. Not her normal cry—not even the labored sound we've gotten used to over the past week. This is weaker, more desperate. The sound of a baby struggling to breathe.
Daphne and I are both moving before we consciously decide to. Up the stairs, down the hallway, into the nursery where Hope lies in her crib making sounds that turn my blood to ice.
Her skin has a bluish tinge. Her tiny chest heaves with rapid, shallow breaths. She's not getting enough oxygen.
"Oh God." Daphne scoops her up immediately, cradling her against her chest. "Xander, the oxygen!"
I'm already grabbing the portable oxygen concentrator we keep in the corner—insurance the cardiologist insisted on that I prayed we'd never need.
My hands shake as I position the tiny nasal cannula, adjust the flow rate the way the nurse taught us.
"Call Dr. Chen," Daphne says, her voice tight with controlled panic. "Now."
I grab my phone with one hand while monitoring Hope with the other. The emergency line rings twice before the on-call cardiologist answers—not Dr. Chen herself, but someone from her team.
"This is Xander Hale. Our daughter Hope, six weeks old, diagnosed congenital heart defects—she's in respiratory distress. Skin is bluish, breathing rapid and shallow. We have her on supplemental oxygen now."
The doctor's voice is calm, professional. "What's her oxygen saturation reading?"
I check the pulse oximeter clipped to Hope's tiny foot. "Eighty-two percent."
"Okay. Keep her upright against mother's chest. That position helps blood flow. Increase oxygen flow slightly—not too much, just half a liter more. I need you to monitor her saturation every five minutes and call me back if it drops below eighty or doesn't improve in the next twenty minutes."
"What if it doesn't improve?" My voice cracks on the question.
"Then you call 911 and bring her to the ER. But let's try this first. Often these episodes resolve with positioning and supplemental oxygen."
I relay instructions to Daphne, who adjusts Hope's position carefully. Our daughter's crying has weakened to whimpers. I don't know if that's good or terrifying.
The next thirty minutes are the longest of my life. We take turns checking Hope's oxygen levels every five minutes, watching the numbers fluctuate. Eighty-two. Eighty-four. Down to eighty-one. Back up to eighty-five.
I think about calling 911 three separate times. Each time, Hope's levels tick up just enough that we wait another five minutes. Just five more minutes. Just a little longer.
Daphne hasn't stopped crying. Silent tears streaming down her face while she holds our daughter and whispers things I can't quite hear. Prayers, maybe. Or promises.
Finally, after twenty-eight minutes that feel like hours, Hope's breathing eases. The bluish tinge fades from her skin. Her oxygen saturation climbs to ninety percent and stays there.
She falls asleep against Daphne's chest, exhausted from the effort of breathing. We stay frozen in position for another ten minutes, terrified that moving will trigger another episode.
When I'm finally convinced she's stable, I call the cardiologist back. Explain that Hope's improved, that we managed it at home. The doctor says we did exactly right, but if it happens again, we should bring her in immediately. This was a warning. Next time might be worse.
I thank her and end the call. Look at Daphne across the nursery, both of us still shaking with residual fear.
"That was…" Daphne's voice breaks. "I thought we were losing her."
"I know." I cross to them, wrap my arms around both Daphne and Hope. "I know."
We stay like that for a long time. Eventually, we manage to transfer Hope to her crib without waking her. Set up the monitor with extra vigilance, double-check that the oxygen concentrator is within easy reach.
Back in our bedroom, I catch sight of my phone on the nightstand. David Sterling’s contact information still pulled up, ready to call.
I close it without calling.
The investigator can wait. Finding Maya, tracking her down, ensuring she faces consequences—all of that can wait. The choice is obvious.
In bed, I pull Daphne close. She curls into my side, head on my chest, one hand fisted in my shirt like she's afraid I'll disappear.
"I'm terrified," she whispers into the darkness.
"So am I." The admission comes easier than it should. "Every time she cries, every time her breathing changes. I'm terrified we're going to lose her."
"But we're terrified together." Daphne's voice is small but steady. "That helps. Doesn't it?"
"Yes." I press a kiss to her hair. "It helps."
We fall asleep tangled together, the baby monitor volume turned up, both of us listening to Hope's breathing even in our dreams.
Tomorrow brings more of the same—medication schedules, breathing checks, the exhausting vigilance of keeping our daughter alive.
Maya feels very far away. Hope is right here, needing us completely.
The choice has never been clearer.