Two Little Secrets From My Boss

Chapter 46

Saturday morning dawned crisp and clear, and by ten o'clock we were standing in front of the jellyfish exhibit, watching Nina press her face against the glass in wonder. The creatures drifted like living lanterns, their translucent bodies pulsing with soft, ethereal light.

"They don't have brains," Nina announced, clearly having memorized the placard. "Or hearts, or blood. They're basically just floating goo."

"Beautiful floating goo," Lisa corrected softly, her eyes tracking one particular jellyfish as it descended through the blue water.

I watched Xander crouch down to their level, his designer jeans pressed against the damp concrete floor, his expensive jacket forgotten on a nearby bench. He pointed at something in the tank, and both girls leaned closer, listening to whatever explanation he was offering with the kind of serious attention they usually reserved for cartoon characters.

"See how the tentacles trail behind?" he said. "That's how they catch their food. The tentacles have special cells that sting anything that touches them."

"Like a superpower?" Nina asked.

"Exactly like that. They're basically tiny, floating superheroes."

Lisa giggled—a sound I hadn't heard nearly enough of lately. "Daddy, jellyfish aren't superheroes, they're just animals."

"Animals can be superheroes," Xander insisted. "Look at that one and tell me that's not a superhero pose."

He was lighter here. The tension that usually lived in his shoulders had melted away, replaced by something looser and more present. He laughed without distraction, gave the girls his full attention, asked questions about their opinions as if the answers genuinely mattered.

This was Xander as a father. Not a protector standing guard against threats, not a provider calculating logistics, but a dad. Fully inhabiting the role in a way I'd only glimpsed before.

The otter exhibit proved even more successful. Lisa stood transfixed for nearly twenty minutes, watching the sleek animals tumble and play in their enclosure. When one of them floated on its back, paws pressed together like it was praying, she turned to me with shining eyes.

"Mommy, they hold hands when they sleep so they don't drift apart. The sign said so."

"I read that too, baby."

"Can people do that? Hold hands so they don't drift apart?"

The question hit somewhere tender in my chest. "Yes, sweetheart. People can definitely do that."

By early afternoon, both girls were exhausted in the best possible way—the kind of tired that came from wonder and excitement rather than stress and fear. We ate lunch at the aquarium café, where Nina declared that her fish-shaped chicken nuggets were "too cute to eat" and then ate them anyway.

On the drive home, they fell asleep within minutes, their heads tilted toward each other in the backseat, hands almost touching across the car seat divide. I watched them in the rearview mirror and felt something knotted in my chest begin to loosen.

"Thank you," I said quietly to Xander. "For today."

"You were right, we needed this." He reached over and took my hand. "They needed this."

"You were amazing with them. The way you listened, the way you engaged with their questions. They worship you, you know."

"The feeling is entirely mutual," his voice was rough with emotion. "I missed so much, Daphne, five years of moments like today. I'm not missing any more."

After baths and bedtime stories and the comfortable ritual of tucking them in, the apartment settled into quiet. But it wasn't the fragile silence of recent weeks—it felt charged, electric, thick with something unspoken.

I found Xander in the living room, staring out at the city lights, his reflection ghostly in the glass. He turned to face me, his expression serious:

"I need you to know something, Daphne. What happened at the school—that's never happening again. I will never let anyone come near our children like that. Whatever it takes, whatever resources I have to deploy, whatever enemies I have to destroy. They're untouchable."

The rawness in his voice, the fierce earnestness of the promise, pulled at something deep in my chest. My body needed to believe what my mind still doubted—needed physical proof that we were safe, that we were together, that nothing could tear this apart.

I kissed him, with an urgency that surprised us both. My fingers found his hair, his jaw, the collar of his shirt. I pulled him closer with desperate need.

He responded instantly, his hands gripping my waist, lifting me onto the back of the couch as his mouth claimed mine. The kiss was hungry, raw, fueled by fear and relief and the weight of everything we'd almost lost.

"Daphne," he breathed against my neck. "God, Daphne."

"I need you," the words came out broken, honest. "I need to feel you, to know this is real."

He carried me to the bedroom, our mouths never separating for more than the seconds required to navigate doorways. When he laid me on the bed, the look in his eyes—dark, intense, absolutely devoted—made my heart stutter.

Our clothes disappeared in a blur of impatient hands. His body covered mine, warm and solid, and I wrapped myself around him like he was the only thing keeping me anchored to the earth.

"I love you," he said, his forehead pressed against mine. "And nothing is going to take it away."

When he pushed inside me, I gasped at the completeness of it—the physical and emotional joining that felt like coming home after a long, terrifying journey. He moved slowly at first, his eyes locked on mine, watching every response, every flutter of pleasure across my face.

But slow wasn't what I needed. I arched against him, pulling him deeper, urging him faster. The fear and relief and desperate love all tangled together, demanding release.

He gave me what I asked for. Hard and deep and relentless, driving us both toward something explosive. I cried out dirty curses when I shattered, and he followed moments later, his body shuddering against mine.

Afterward, we lay tangled together in the darkness, my head on his chest, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my back. The tension that had lived in my body for weeks had finally, mercifully released.

"I could stay like this forever," I murmured.

"That's the plan," he pressed a kiss to my hair. "This, right here. Everything else is just noise."

I let my eyes drift closed, let myself believe in the safety of his arms, the certainty of his promises. Maybe we would be okay, maybe the worst was behind us.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand. Xander tensed beneath me but didn't move. The phone buzzed again, then again, then started ringing continuously.

"Ignore it," I whispered.

"It's the office line," he shifted, reaching for the device. "That number only rings for emergencies."

He answered, his voice instantly professional despite being naked and tangled in sheets. "This is Hale."

I couldn't hear the other end of the conversation, but I watched his face change. The relaxation drained away, replaced by something cold and sharp.

"When?" a pause. "How bad?" another pause, longer this time. "I understand. I'll be there within the hour."

He ended the call and sat up, scrubbing his hands over his face.

"Xander, what happened?"

He turned to look at me, and the expression in his eyes made my stomach drop.

"The board called an emergency session. Apparently there's been a formal motion of no confidence filed against me," his jaw tightened. "Someone's been busy. I need to get to the office immediately—this is the kind of trouble that doesn't wait until morning."