[POV Xander]
I saw them through the coffee shop window.
Daphne and Archie, sitting across from each other at a small table, leaning in like they were sharing secrets. He reached across and touched her hand, and something dark and ugly coiled in my chest.
I knew it was irrational. Daphne loved me, had chosen me, had married me. I knew Archie had stepped back gracefully after everything that happened. I knew all of this, and it didn't matter.
The irritation felt disproportionate, and that realization only made it worse.
I told myself it was about boundaries and optics. About loyalty and appropriate behavior for a married woman and a man who had once wanted to take her from me. I constructed logical frameworks around the feeling, dressed it in professional concern and reasonable expectations.
But the truth was more primal than any of that.
I hated how naturally Archie fit into her life. How easily he made her laugh, and how comfortable she looked in his presence—relaxed in a way she sometimes struggled to be around me.
By the time Daphne returned to the penthouse that evening, the dark thing in my chest had grown teeth.
"How was your day?" I asked, my voice carefully neutral.
"Busy," she set down her bag and kissed my cheek. "The girls are with Sarah? I thought I'd make dinner tonight."
"They're playing in their room," I followed her into the kitchen, watching her move through the space like she belonged there. She did. This was her home now. "Anything interesting happen?"
"Just the usual meetings and emails," she pulled vegetables from the refrigerator, her back to me. "Oh, I ran into Archie at the coffee shop this morning. We caught up for a few minutes."
There it was. The casual mention, like it meant nothing.
"I saw," I said.
Daphne turned, confusion flickering across her features. "What?"
"I was walking to a meeting and passed the window." I kept my voice level, but something must have shown in my expression because her posture shifted—defensive, wary.
"It was just coffee, Xander. We talked for maybe fifteen minutes."
"You didn't mention it this morning."
"I didn't think it was worth mentioning. We're old friends. Colleagues, really, and it wasn't a secret."
"It looked intimate."
"Intimate?" She set down the knife she'd been holding. "We were sitting in a public coffee shop in broad daylight. How is that intimate?"
"He touched your hand."
"He squeezed it for about two seconds, as a gesture of support," her voice sharpened. "Are you actually interrogating me about having coffee with a friend?"
"I'm asking questions and that's not the same thing."
"It feels like the same," she crossed her arms, and I watched the walls go up—the same walls she'd built during those early weeks at the company, when she'd been protecting herself from me. "What exactly are you accusing me of?"
"I'm not."
"Then why does this feel like an inquisition?"
I ran a hand through my hair, frustration building. "You had coffee with your ex-lover and didn't tell me! He still looks at you like he wants you, and I don't trust his intentions, even if I trust yours."
"His intentions are his problem, not mine. I can't control how other people feel," she stepped closer, her eyes searching my face. "What I can control is being honest with you, which I have been. Always."
"Have you?" The words came out harsher than I intended. "This morning you texted that you grabbed coffee. You didn't mention who with."
"Because it didn't matter. I didn't think my husband would be tracking my movements and cross-referencing them against witness sightings."
"I wasn't tracking you."
"Then how did you know I was at that specific coffee shop at that specific time?"
I didn't have a good answer. The truth—that I'd been walking past and stopped to watch them through the window—sounded worse than surveillance.
"This isn't about Archie," Daphne said quietly. "This is about you. About whatever your mother said that's been eating at you for days, and about your need to control everything because you're terrified of losing it."
"That's not fair!"
She reached for my hand, and I let her take it despite the anger still churning in my gut. "I love you, Xander. I'm building a life with you, but partnership doesn't mean ownership. You don't get to monitor who I talk to or demand explanations for innocent conversations."
"He slept with you."
"Before we were together," her grip tightened. "Are you going to hold my past against me forever? That's not sustainable or healthy."
I heard an accusation where she meant concern, judgment where she offered understanding. My mother's voice echoed in my head, and I couldn't separate the poison from the truth.
"I need you to understand something," my voice came out rough, stripped of its usual control. "Every person I've ever trusted has betrayed me. My family, Bianca, business partners I thought were friends. I've learned the hard way that people leave. That love isn't enough, and loyalty is a myth."
"I'm not those people."
"Logically, I know that." I pulled her closer, my hands gripping her waist like she might disappear. "But logic doesn't control fear, and I am terrified, Daphne. Every single day, I'm terrified of losing you."
"Then trust me," her hands came up to frame my face. "Stop treating me like a flight risk and trust me. I chose you, and I keep choosing you."
I kissed her instead of answering—desperate, consuming, trying to communicate what words couldn't convey. She responded with equal intensity, her fingers fisting in my shirt, pulling me closer.
I lifted her onto the kitchen counter, her legs wrapping around my waist, our mouths still fused together. My hands found the hem of her shirt and pulled it over her head, breaking the kiss only long enough to discard it.
"The girls," she gasped.
"Are playing, door’s closed," I unclasped her bra, my mouth finding the curve of her neck. "I want you."
I took her there on the counter, hard and fast and urgent. She met every thrust with equal desperation, her nails raking down my back, her moans muffled against my shoulder. It was primal and possessive and nothing like the tender lovemaking of our wedding night.
When she shattered around me, crying out my name, I followed her over the edge with a groan that felt torn from somewhere deep.
We stayed there afterward, breathing hard, foreheads pressed together. Her hand stroked through my hair with a gentleness that made my chest ache.
"I love you," she whispered, "but we need to figure this out. I can't live under a microscope."
"I know," I pressed a kiss to her temple. "I'm working on it."
But even as I said the words, the suspicion lingered. Archie’d wanted to raise my daughters as his own. He'd positioned himself as the better choice, the easier path, the man who would give her everything without the complications I brought.
And now he was back in her life, offering friendship and support and all the things I struggled to provide.
I told myself stress was the cause of my paranoia. My mother's arrival and the pressure of integrating a family into a life built for solitude. But the doubt remained, coiled in my chest like a sleeping snake, waiting to strike.