After three years of infertility and another year of IVF, I finally became pregnant—and six months later, standing barefoot behind a half-closed library door, I learned the four babies inside me had never been mine.
Chapter 2
Dr. Rebecca Harris closed the consultation-room door herself.
She was sixty-three, with silver hair cut neatly at her jaw and the steady manner of a woman who had delivered thousands of babies and had long ago stopped being intimidated by wealthy husbands.
I told her everything.
I expected disbelief.
Instead, she became very still.
“Scarlett, did you ever consent to carrying embryos created from other women’s eggs?”
“No.”
“Did anyone explain that donor eggs were being used?”
“No.”
She removed her glasses. “Then we need independent genetic testing immediately.”
The tests confirmed the nightmare.
None of the fetuses were genetically mine.
Carter was the biological father of all four.
The egg donors were four different women.
Dr. Harris stared at the results for a long time.
“What happened to you is not an ordinary marital betrayal,” she said. “If these records are accurate, your reproductive consent was violated.”
I gripped the sides of the chair.
“What are my options?”
She hesitated.
My pregnancy was already medically dangerous. Four fetuses had stretched my uterus severely. My blood pressure was unstable, and scans showed worrying thinning that could worsen as the pregnancy advanced.
“Your health is at serious risk,” she said. “Whatever happens next must be handled by specialists. You need legal counsel immediately, and you need to be somewhere your husband cannot control your care.”
For the first time, I fully understood why Carter had dismissed every warning about reducing the pregnancy.
He had not been protecting babies.
He had been protecting inventory.
I nearly became sick.
But grief had begun changing into something harder.
Before marrying Carter Sterling, I had worked in corporate finance. My father, a public-school principal, had raised me to read everything before signing it and to trust numbers more than promises.
Love had made me careless.
Pain made me careful again.
I called Margaret Doyle, an attorney who had once represented my mother’s estate after she died. Margaret listened without interrupting.
When I finished, she said, “Do not confront Carter. Do not warn anybody. Collect evidence legally, and get yourself somewhere safe.”
That afternoon, I went to the fertility clinic.
Dr. Jonathan Vance had overseen our IVF treatment. He was one of Carter’s old fraternity brothers, charming when necessary and expensive enough to make patients assume he must be brilliant.
When I entered his office without an appointment, he looked alarmed.
“Scarlett? You shouldn’t be out alone.”
I placed my phone on his desk.
“Listen.”
The recording began.
I had started it outside the library almost without thinking. Carter’s voice filled the office.
“Scarlett is occupying the position. She’ll do what she always does—take the pain and keep quiet.”
Jonathan turned white.
I stopped the recording.
“Who supplied the fourth embryo?”
His mouth opened.
“Scarlett, this isn’t—”
“Delilah Hale. Sienna Brooks. Selene Miller. Who is number four?”
He stood.
“You need to go home.”
“Sit down, Jonathan.”
Perhaps it was my voice.
Perhaps it was the enormous belly containing proof of what he had done.
He sat.
“Clara Montgomery,” he whispered.
I almost laughed.
The final piece fit perfectly.
Clara’s father controlled an investment fund Carter needed for his merger. Clara had suffered injuries in a car accident but had frozen eggs years earlier.
Carter had turned fertility into corporate diplomacy.
Delilah was guilt.
Sienna was vanity.
Selene was desire.
Clara was business.
And I was the container.
Margaret had already prepared a preservation demand requiring the clinic to maintain all records. Faced with possible criminal investigation and professional ruin, Jonathan agreed to cooperate through his own attorney.
By evening, Margaret had copies of embryo-chain records, consent forms, internal emails, and security logs.
Carter had been arrogant enough to believe wealth could erase paperwork.
He was wrong.
When I returned home, Sienna Brooks was sitting in my living room.
She had brought four handmade baby blankets.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she said brightly. “I couldn’t resist.”
One blue blanket carried embroidered initials.
S.B.S.
Sterling Brooks.
I stared at them.
Sienna quickly folded the corner under.
Carter was standing by the windows with a drink.
“Where were you?”
“Walking.”
“In your condition?”
“I needed air.”
He came over and supported my elbow with exaggerated concern.
“You have to stop behaving as though you’re carrying one baby. You’re carrying four.”
I looked into his face.
“I know exactly how many I’m carrying.”
He missed the meaning.
Of course he did.
Selene arrived later with gala schedules. Clara Montgomery’s family had confirmed their attendance, as had Delilah’s father, Edward Hale.
Carter looked delighted.
The gala would celebrate Sterling Industries’ thirtieth anniversary and announce the Montgomery merger.
The press had been told I would appear beside Carter as the radiant expectant mother carrying the next generation of the Sterling family.
“You’ll wear the emerald dress,” Carter told me. “The board loves the family angle.”
“My family angle?”
“Our family.”
He touched my hair as though rewarding a well-trained pet.
“After the gala, you can stay at the hospital until delivery.”
Until delivery.
I smiled.
“Whatever you need.”
That night, while Carter believed I was asleep, I heard footsteps in the upstairs hallway.
Selene had returned through the side entrance.
I had already stopped caring.
My suitcase was gone, taken to a secure apartment Margaret arranged under my maiden name. My passport, financial records, and personal accounts were protected. A forensic specialist had copied the home-security logs.
At two in the morning, I entered Carter’s study.
His safe combination was our wedding anniversary.
Inside were documents I never expected to find.
Private agreements with Sienna and Clara concerning custody after birth.
A handwritten betting book tracking gender, birth weights, and which woman’s baby would arrive first.
And a draft form assigning my parental rights after surgery.
My signature line was blank.
Someone apparently intended to solve that inconvenience later.
I photographed everything.
Then I removed my wedding ring.
I placed it on Carter’s desk beside divorce papers Margaret had prepared.
On top, I left the invitation to his gala.
Across the front I wrote four words.
You should attend tonight.
By sunrise, I was gone.
