Chapter 4 - Baby A and Baby BFor the first time since leaving Grant, I screamed.
The seventh time, Rebecca took the tablet away.
“You’re done.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I need to see it again.”
“You know what it says.”
I sat in the small conference room of Rebecca’s law firm overlooking downtown Charlotte and stared at the dark screen.
Our babies.
Not Grant’s children.
Not donated embryos.
Ours.
And then:
Once the twins are born, we can finally decide how to handle her.
I wrapped both arms around my belly.
“Handle me how?”
Rebecca didn’t answer immediately.
That frightened me.
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re thinking something.”
“I’m thinking we don’t guess.”
Rebecca had always been the practical one in our family.
As children, I climbed trees.
Rebecca checked whether the branches were rotten.
At thirty-eight, she had become exactly the attorney you wanted when your life was collapsing—calm, skeptical, and impossible to intimidate.
She slid a yellow legal pad toward me.
“Start from the beginning.”
“I already told you.”
“Not about the fertility clinic. About Grant and Vanessa.”
So I did.
I met Grant Mercer twelve years earlier at a fundraising dinner for the children’s hospital where I worked as a speech therapist.
He was charming without seeming rehearsed.
That was what attracted me.
He remembered names.
Asked questions.
Called when he said he would.
Vanessa had already been in his life.
They had attended Duke together.
Started working in real estate development after graduation.
By the time Grant and I married, Mercer Hart Development had become one of the fastest-growing firms in the Carolinas.
Vanessa stood beside me at the wedding.
Not as bridesmaid.
As family.
At least that was what Grant called her.
“She’s basically my sister.”
I had believed him.
Rebecca stopped writing.
“Were they ever romantically involved?”
“Grant always said no.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Vanessa date?”
“Yes. Constantly.”
“Serious relationships?”
“Never more than a year.”
“Did she seem jealous of you?”
“No.”
That was what made it unbearable.
Vanessa had been wonderful to me.
When Grant traveled, she invited me to dinner.
When my father died, she organized meals.
During IVF, she drove me to appointments twice when Grant had meetings.
She knew every humiliating detail of my infertility.
And apparently every time I had cried in her arms, she had known she was secretly providing the eggs I believed came from my own body.
Rebecca tapped the email.
“Did Grant ever talk about divorce?”
“Never.”
“Prenup?”
“Yes.”
Her head lifted.
“Terms?”
“Anything acquired before marriage remained separate. Marital assets were divided normally.”
“Company shares?”
“His original ownership remained separate.”
“Life insurance?”
I frowned.
“Why?”
“Answer.”
“Grant has a policy. So do I.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know his. Mine is two million.”
“Beneficiary?”
“Grant.”
Rebecca wrote it down.
A chill ran through me.
“Rebecca.”
“Don’t.”
“You think—”
“I think we gather facts.”
My phone vibrated.
Grant.
His fifteenth call since I left.
I ignored it.
A message arrived.
We need to talk before lawyers turn this into something it isn’t.
Rebecca glanced at the screen.
“Save that.”
Another appeared.
Keller made mistakes with paperwork. That doesn’t change the fact that we wanted these children together.
Then another.
Vanessa was helping us. Nothing more.
I showed Rebecca.
She photographed each message.
“Do not respond yet.”
The clinic called thirty minutes later.
Dr. Keller’s office.
Rebecca nodded for me to answer on speaker.
“Hello?”
A receptionist spoke brightly.
“Mrs. Mercer, Dr. Keller would like you to come in this afternoon. There are a few administrative documents requiring updated signatures.”
Rebecca’s eyebrows rose.
“Updated signatures?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What documents?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Email them.”
“I’m afraid they need to be signed in person.”
“Then email me copies first.”
Silence.
“I’ll ask the doctor.”
The call ended.
Rebecca leaned back.
“They know.”
“Grant told him.”
“And Keller wants paperwork signed.”
“What if he destroys the records?”
“He’d be an idiot.”
“People become idiots when prison or losing a medical license becomes possible.”
Rebecca smiled without humor.
“Exactly.”
By noon, she had sent formal preservation notices to the clinic, Grant, Mercer Hart Development, and the medical-records storage provider.
At 1:40 p.m., I saw an independent maternal-fetal specialist.
Dr. Hannah Lee reviewed my scans, medications, bloodwork, and transfer history.
She was gentle.
But when I told her about the donor fraud, her face became carefully neutral.
“Did you consent to donor eggs?”
“No.”
“Did you sign any document discussing that possibility?”
“Not knowingly.”
“Then your attorney should obtain the complete embryology file.”
“Are the babies okay?”
“That’s what I care about right now.”
She smiled.
“They look excellent.”
I nearly collapsed with relief.
Two strong heartbeats.
Two healthy boys.
Whatever their genetics, they were innocent.
So was I.
After the appointment, Rebecca’s investigator called.
His name was Marcus Bell, a former financial-crimes detective with a talent for finding records people assumed had disappeared.
He had found something.
We met him at Rebecca’s office.
Marcus placed several printouts on the table.
“Vanessa purchased a condo eighteen months ago.”
“So?”
“Grant paid the down payment.”
My stomach tightened.
“How much?”
“Four hundred and eighty thousand dollars.”
Rebecca whistled softly.
Marcus continued.
“The money came through a consulting company Grant controls separately from Mercer Hart.”
“Does Vanessa live there?”
“No.”
“Who does?”
Marcus looked at me.
“No one.”
I frowned.
“Then why buy it?”
“Interesting question.”
He pushed another page toward me.
The property was a three-bedroom luxury condo less than ten minutes from our home.
The listing photographs showed pale hardwood floors, a nursery-sized third bedroom, and private elevator access.
Then Marcus produced a second document.
Furniture invoices.
A crib.
Two bassinets.
A twin stroller.
Changing tables.
Baby monitors.
Purchased five months earlier.
Delivered to Vanessa’s condo.
I stopped breathing.
Rebecca’s voice turned hard.
“They built a nursery.”
Marcus nodded.
“For twins.”
The room became too small.
“They were planning to take my babies.”
Rebecca immediately corrected me.
“Your children.”
I looked at her.
She placed both hands on the table.
“Claire, biology matters medically and legally in certain contexts. But do not let their deception convince you that pregnancy, birth, care, and motherhood mean nothing.”
I nodded, but my throat hurt.
Marcus slid one final page forward.
“And then there’s this.”
It was a draft document recovered from Grant’s cloud storage.
Not signed.
But recently edited.
A proposed postnuptial agreement.
Under its terms, I would waive nearly all claims to Mercer Hart assets in exchange for the family home and a support payment.
There was also language addressing custody.
If our marriage ended within two years of the twins’ birth, Grant would seek primary physical custody based partly on my alleged “history of emotional instability related to infertility and pregnancy.”
I stared at the sentence.
“Emotional instability?”
Rebecca’s face changed.
“When have you been treated for emotional instability?”
“Never.”
“Therapy?”
“After my miscarriages.”
“Medication?”
“Short-term anxiety medication after the second loss.”
Marcus sighed.
“They may have been building a narrative.”
Everything clicked into place.
Grant telling friends I was “fragile.”
Vanessa encouraging me to take extended leave from work.
Keller documenting stress at appointments.
Grant insisting I stop driving late in pregnancy.
Separate pieces.
Together, something darker.
A plan.
My phone rang.
This time it was Vanessa.
Rebecca looked at me.
“Your choice.”
I answered.
“Claire.”
Vanessa sounded breathless.
“Please don’t hang up.”
I said nothing.
“What Grant did was wrong.”
“What Grant did?”
“I should have insisted you be told.”
“You donated eggs.”
“Yes.”
“Knowing I didn’t consent.”
Her silence answered.
“Why?”
“I wanted to help.”
“Then why is there a nursery in your condo?”
Vanessa stopped breathing.
Rebecca looked sharply at Marcus.
We had not told anyone we knew.
“Claire…”
“Why are there two bassinets in your condo?”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then explain.”
Her voice cracked.
“Grant told me you were going to leave.”
I laughed once.
A broken sound.
“When?”
“After the babies.”
“He told you that?”
“Yes.”
“And you believed him?”
“I believed…”
She stopped.
“What?”
When Vanessa spoke again, her voice was barely audible.
“I believed he was finally going to choose me.”
The room became completely silent.
I closed my eyes.
There it was.
Not suspicion.
Not circumstantial evidence.
Truth.
“How long?”
“Claire—”
“How long have you been sleeping with my husband?”
Vanessa began crying.
“Before your wedding.”
My eyes opened.
“What?”
“We stopped when he proposed.”
Rebecca’s pen froze.
Vanessa continued.
“For a while.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“For a while?”
“We started again three years ago.”
Three years.
During my first miscarriage.
My surgeries.
My injections.
Three years of betrayal disguised as friendship.
Then Vanessa said something I never expected.
“But Claire, there’s something Grant hasn’t told either of us.”
I felt Rebecca lean closer.
“What?”
Vanessa inhaled shakily.
“Keller didn’t just use my eggs.”
My heart began pounding.
“What does that mean?”
“There were twelve embryos.”
“Yes?”
“Grant made Keller transfer embryos without telling me which ones.”
I stared at the phone.
“Which ones?”
May you like
Vanessa whispered:
“Claire… I don’t think both babies are mine.”
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