The commotion died down eventually.
People returned to their desks in clusters, whispering, casting glances toward the exit where Xander had vanished. The words "punched," "investor," and "millions" floated through the air like debris from an explosion.
I lingered near the wall, arms wrapped around myself, still processing what I'd witnessed. My mind kept replaying the moment—Xander's fist connecting with Gerald's jaw, the crack of impact, the cold fury in his eyes.
"Daphne."
I turned. Archie stood a few feet away, his expression tight, uncomfortable. He looked smaller somehow—diminished by comparison to the man who'd just thrown away a fortune to defend my honor.
"Can we talk?" he asked.
I didn’t say anything, too exhausted to even refuse.
He moved closer, running a hand through his hair. "I owe you an apology. For the lunch. For not stepping in when Gerald…" He stopped. "I should have said something. Done something. I let you down, and I'm sorry."
The words sounded rehearsed. Careful. Like he'd practiced them in front of a mirror.
"I really care about you," he continued, reaching for my hand. "You know that. I want to make this work, Daphne. Whatever it takes."
I pulled my hand back gently.
"Your family has been pressuring you to find a wife," I said quietly. "To settle down. Your father made that clear at the gala—the way he looked at me, the questions he asked. He was evaluating me."
Archie's chest rose higher, he bit the inside of his cheek, but he didn't deny it.
"Maybe that's why you latched onto me so quickly." I met his eyes, searching for the truth. "I was convenient. A single mother, already proven fertile, grateful for attention. I fit the picture your family wanted."
"I was sincere, Daphne." His voice rose, an edge of defensiveness creeping in. "Everything I said, everything I did—I meant it."
"I believe you were sincere. I do." I smiled tiredly. "You're a good man, Archie. In a lot of ways, you've been wonderful to me."
I paused, searching for the right words. Words that wouldn't wound him more than necessary.
"But the interest alone isn't enough," I said finally.
His face hardened. For a moment, I braced myself for harsh words, for anger, for him to lash out the way wounded men sometimes do.
But he restrained himself. His shoulders dropped. The fight drained out of him, replaced by something quieter. Sadder.
"I understand," he said slowly. "I don't like it, but I understand. I just hoped…" He shook his head. "It doesn't matter what I hoped. You deserve someone who makes you feel like the right choice."
He walked away without looking back. I watched him go, guilt and relief warring in my chest. He'd been good to me. But good wasn't the same as right.
I found Xander in a small office down the hall, sitting on the edge of a chair, examining his bruised knuckles with detached curiosity. Blood had dried in the creases of his skin, and the swelling had already started.
He looked up when I slipped inside, closing the door behind me. I moved toward him, holding up the first aid kit one of the staff had lent me. "Let me help with that."
He didn't protest as I sat beside him, taking his hand in mine.
The knuckles were split in two places, angry red against his skin. I cleaned the wounds gently, dabbing away dried blood, applying antiseptic that made him hiss.
"Sorry," I murmured.
"Don't be. I've had worse."
We were quiet for a moment. The silence felt different than before—not awkward or tense, but something softer. More intimate.
"Thank you," I said finally. "For what you did."
"I had to. No one touches you like that. And anyone who tries to will deal with me."
"You could have lost everything. Morrison was threatening to destroy you."
"I'd do it again without hesitation." Xander's eyes met mine, dark and steady. "A hundred times. A thousand. My reputation, my deals, my empire—none of it matters if I can't protect the people I love."
My heart clenched. "The people you love?"
"You, Daphne." His free hand came up to cup my face. "You and Nina and Lisa. You're what matters. Everything else is just... noise."
I finished bandaging his knuckles, but I didn't let go of his hand. Didn't want to. "Archie told me about you and Bianca," I said quietly.
Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or resignation.
"I figured he would eventually." He sighed. "But I want you to hear it from me. All of it."
And he told me. His voice halting at first, then steadier as the words found their way out.
How he'd met Bianca when he had nothing—a scholarship student, eating ramen for dinner, dreaming of a future he could barely imagine. How she'd made him feel seen for the first time in his life.
How he'd fallen so completely that he'd started planning proposals, imagining children, building castles in the air.
"I thought she loved me," he said quietly. "But she was waiting. Biding her time until someone better came along. Someone richer. Someone who could give her the life she wanted right away."
"Victor."
"Victor." The name came out bitter. "She left me the week after he proposed. Said she needed security. Said love wasn't enough." His jaw tightened. "She was the reason I stopped trusting people. The reason I built walls so high no one could climb them."
"The reason you gave me a fake name?" I asked softly.
"Yes." He met my eyes. "I wanted someone to see me—the real me. Not the billionaire, not the CEO. Just... Xander. The boy who grew up with nothing and still wasn't sure he deserved anything."
"And I did see you." My hand found his cheek. "That night at the bar… I saw you."
"I know." His voice cracked. "That's why it terrified me. That's why I ran. Was too afraid the story might repeat itself."
"And now?"
"Now I'm done running." He turned his face to press a kiss against my palm. "I'm done hiding. I'm done pretending I don't feel what I feel."
His eyes held mine, dark and intent. Slowly, he leaned closer—giving me time to pull away, to stop this, to be sensible. But I leaned back without a thought.
My shoulders met the armrest of the chair, and he followed, one hand bracing beside my head, the other still cradling my face. The space between us shrank to inches. To a breath.
"Daphne," he whispered, my name a question and an answer all at once.
I reached up, threading my fingers through his hair, and pulled him down to me.
The kiss was tender and passionate at once. His mouth moved against mine with a desperation that matched my own, and I kissed him back with everything I had—all the loneliness, all the longing, all the love I'd been afraid to name.
We'd finally found what we were searching for.
And I never wanted to let go.