Chapter 4 - The Daughter I Was Told I LostDr. Samuel Lang arrived at 4:07 in the morning.
Not immediately.
Instead, fifteen minutes after Paige’s call, I told the pilot to hold the plane.
Marcus and I stayed inside the cabin while I listened to a woman who had entered my home carrying babies I believed belonged to my husband explain how all three of us had been manipulated.
Paige spoke quickly.
Like someone afraid courage might disappear if she slowed down.
“Three years ago, Beatrice started asking questions about me.”
“What kind of questions?”
“Medical history. Family history. Whether twins ran in my family. Whether I wanted children.”
“And you didn’t think that was strange?”
“She said she was helping me apply for an executive health benefit.”
I closed my eyes.
“Continue.”
“Last year she told me Connor had feelings for me.”
“Did he?”
Paige hesitated.
“Yes.”
That still hurt.
No conspiracy erased Connor’s choices.
“Were you sleeping together?”
“Twice.”
Marcus glanced toward the window.
I stared straight ahead.
“When?”
“Last November.”
Connor had been in Chicago for four days that November.
At least that was what he told me.
I remembered him returning with a gift.
Pearl earrings.
I had worn them to Christmas dinner.
“Keep talking.”
“I ended it.”
“Why?”
“Because he was married.”
“You knew that before.”
“I know.”
At least she had enough shame not to defend herself.
“Then?”
“Beatrice contacted me. She said she knew about us.”
“And offered you what?”
Paige went quiet.
“How did you know?”
“Because Beatrice never asks for something without buying leverage first.”
“She said Connor loved me but would never leave you unless there was a child.”
“And you believed her?”
“At first.”
“What did she propose?”
Paige swallowed audibly.
“She said Connor had stored genetic material years earlier because of a medical issue.”
“What medical issue?”
“She wouldn’t say. She told me there was a fertility clinic in California where an embryo could be created. She said Connor had privately agreed.”
I felt nauseated.
“You underwent IVF because his mother told you Connor agreed?”
“I spoke to Connor.”
That surprised me.
“He confirmed it?”
“Not exactly.”
“What exactly did he say?”
“He told me his mother was handling something that could change our lives. Then he said if it worked, he would take responsibility.”
That sounded like Connor.
Vague enough to deny.
Clear enough to encourage.
“Did he know you were undergoing IVF?”
“He knew I was trying to get pregnant.”
“With his children.”
“Yes.”
“Did you?”
She began crying harder.
“I thought they were his.”
“But now you don’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because six weeks ago, I accidentally received part of the clinic file.”
Marcus was already opening his laptop.
“What was in it?” I asked.
“A donor code.”
I felt a chill.
“The sperm wasn’t Connor’s?”
“No.”
“Whose?”
“I don’t know.”
“And why do you believe Connor is infertile?”
“Because the file contained a genetic screening memo saying the intended social father had confirmed non-obstructive azoospermia.”
The clinical term hit me like a physical blow.
I knew enough to understand.
No viable sperm.
Possibly permanent.
Possibly long-standing.
Connor and I had spent six years trying to have a child.
Six years.
I had undergone hormone injections.
Three egg retrievals.
Two failed embryo transfers.
One miscarriage at ten weeks.
Dozens of blood tests.
Procedures.
Specialists.
I had blamed my body.
And Connor had let me.
I gripped the edge of the seat.
“Gwen?” Marcus said quietly.
I could not answer.
Memories started returning.
Connor holding my hand after our first failed treatment.
Connor telling me we would keep trying.
Connor watching while I injected medication into my stomach.
Connor sitting beside my hospital bed after the miscarriage.
He had cried.
Had he known then?
Had Beatrice?
“Paige,” I said.
“Yes?”
“How long has Beatrice known?”
“She said eleven years.”
That was before our wedding.
My voice became almost unrecognizable.
“How do you know?”
“I heard her arguing with Dr. Lang.”
“Who?”
“The clinic physician.”
“What did she say?”
“She said, ‘I have protected Connor’s diagnosis for eleven years and I’m not going to let one careless document destroy everything now.’”
I stopped hearing the rest.
Marcus took the phone gently from my hand.
“Paige, this is Marcus Bell, Ms. Mercer’s attorney.”
There was a pause.
“Mercer?”
Marcus looked at me.
I nodded.
“Yes. Mercer.”
Apparently Paige knew the name.
Most people in finance did.
“I need you to preserve every text, email, clinic document, medical form, and communication involving Beatrice, Connor, or Dr. Lang. Do not delete anything. Do not hand your phone to anyone.”
“I won’t.”
“Are you safe where you are?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where are the babies?”
“With me.”
“And Connor?”
“Downstairs.”
“Beatrice?”
“Also downstairs.”
Marcus looked at me.
“Do you want her removed?”
“Yes.”
He returned to the call.
“Paige, take the twins into a room you can lock. Pack essential items quietly. I’m arranging transportation to a hotel under security.”
“I can’t just leave.”
“You can.”
“What about Connor?”
I took the phone back.
“Paige.”
“Yes?”
“Do you love him?”
Silence.
“I thought I did.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“No.”
“Does he love you?”
Another long pause.
“I think he loves being wanted.”
That was the first thing she had said all night that made me believe she truly knew my husband.
“Then leave.”
“What are you going to do?”
I looked at Marcus.
“Find out how many years of my life Beatrice stole.”
The jet never left Atlanta that night.
Instead, I checked into a private suite at the St. Regis under Mercer security.
At 2:18 a.m., Paige arrived through a service entrance carrying one baby while a security officer carried the other.
She looked nothing like the polished executive secretary who had stood in my foyer.
Her hair was pulled into a messy knot.
No makeup.
No heels.
Only loose pants, a sweater, and terror.
She stopped when she saw me.
“I don’t expect forgiveness.”
“You’re not getting it tonight.”
She nodded.
“I understand.”
“But those babies didn’t do anything.”
Her face crumpled.
“Thank you.”
I looked at the twins.
They were tiny.
Innocent.
Unaware that four adults had already constructed lies around their lives.
“What are their names?”
“Oliver and James.”
“Did Connor name them?”
“Beatrice did.”
Of course she did.
Marcus entered with two investigators.
“Paige, we need the documents.”
She handed him a laptop, phone, and a thick envelope.
“One more thing,” she said.
She reached into the diaper bag.
A flash drive.
“Dr. Lang gave me this.”
“When?”
“This afternoon.”
“Why?”
“He said he was scared.”
Marcus inserted the drive into an isolated laptop.
There were dozens of files.
Clinic records.
Invoices.
Consent forms.
Correspondence.
Then Marcus stopped.
“Gwen.”
I walked behind him.
On the screen was an email dated eight years earlier.
From Beatrice Albright to Dr. Samuel Lang.
The subject:
GWENDOLYN — FERTILITY MANAGEMENT
My stomach dropped.
Marcus opened it.
The email was short.
Beatrice had instructed Dr. Lang not to reveal Connor’s diagnosis to me.
She had also authorized the clinic to allow doctors to continue testing and treating me for infertility as though Connor’s fertility status remained uncertain.
I read the message twice.
Then I saw the attachment.
A payment record.
Beatrice had paid the clinic $600,000 through a private family foundation.
“For confidentiality services,” Marcus said.
Paige covered her mouth.
I could not move.
I thought about every injection.
Every negative pregnancy test.
Every month I had looked at my body and wondered why it had failed.
Every time Beatrice said, “Some women simply aren’t meant to become mothers.”
She had known.
She had watched.
And she had let me believe I was the problem because preserving Connor’s pride mattered more than my body.
More than my grief.
More than my right to choose.
Another document appeared.
This one was recent.
A donor agreement.
Marcus read silently.
Then his expression changed.
“What?”
“The donor wasn’t random.”
Paige stepped closer.
“What do you mean?”
Marcus turned the screen toward us.
The biological father was identified by code, but an attached legal waiver contained a name.
I read it.
And nearly dropped the laptop.
Nathaniel Albright.
Connor’s younger brother.
Paige whispered, “Oh my God.”
The twins were biologically Albright children.
Just not Connor’s.
Beatrice had used her younger son’s genetic material to manufacture heirs for her older son.
“Does Nathaniel know?” I asked.
Marcus scanned the documents.
“He signed a donor authorization.”
“For Connor?”
“No.”
He enlarged the document.
The stated purpose was anonymous donation for “approved family reproductive research.”
Paige stared at me.
“She lied to him too.”
I felt something shift inside me.
Until then, I had thought Beatrice was cruel.
Now I understood she was dangerous.
Marcus continued searching.
Then he froze again.
“There’s correspondence from tonight.”
“How?”
“Dr. Lang uploaded it before giving Paige the drive.”
He opened an audio file.
Beatrice’s voice filled the room.
“You will amend the records. Connor is the biological father. I don’t care how you accomplish it.”
Dr. Lang responded.
“That would be fraud.”
“I paid you for discretion.”
“You paid me to conceal a diagnosis. This is different.”
“Nothing is different.”
“It is when children are involved.”
Then Beatrice said something that caused all three of us to look at each other.
“If Gwendolyn learns what we did to her embryos, the twins will be the least of our problems.”
The recording ended.
I stared at the screen.
My voice barely worked.
“My embryos?”
Paige went white.
Marcus immediately searched the drive.
There were no obvious results.
But somewhere in that clinic’s records was another secret.
One involving the embryos Connor and I had created—or believed we had created—years earlier.
I stood.
“Get Dr. Lang.”
Marcus nodded.
“I’ll call.”
“No.”
I looked at the clock.
It was 2:46 a.m.
“Bring him here.”
Twenty-seven minutes later, my phone rang.
Connor.
This time I answered.
He sounded furious.
“Where is Paige?”
“Safe.”
“You took my children?”
“They’re not your children.”
Silence.
Then laughter.
Nervous.
Disbelieving.
“What are you talking about?”
“Ask your mother.”
“Gwen—”
“Ask her why a fertility doctor diagnosed you eleven years ago and somehow forgot to tell your wife.”
Connor stopped breathing.
I continued.
“Ask Beatrice why Nathaniel’s name appears on the donor file.”
The line went dead silent.
Then Connor whispered, “Nathaniel?”
Behind him, somewhere in that house, I heard Beatrice shout.
“Connor, hang up.”
He did not.
“What did she do?”
For the first time, my husband sounded afraid.
I looked at the clinic records spread across the table.
“I don’t know yet.”
Then I remembered Beatrice’s voice.
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If Gwendolyn learns what we did to her embryos...
“But I’m going to find out.”
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