Chapter 2 - The Woman Waiting DownstairsDaniel stared at me as if I had become someone he didn't recognize.
I remember that because the nurse had just checked me.
“Seven centimeters, Evelyn. You're moving fast.”
Fast.
That word almost makes me laugh now.
Nothing about that night felt fast.
Every second stretched until it had teeth.
Outside my hospital window, rain streaked across downtown Chicago, smearing the lights into ribbons of white and red. Inside the room, the fetal monitor kept pulsing beside me.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
My daughter's heartbeat.
At least, I still thought of her as my daughter then.
Another contraction began low in my spine.
I grabbed the bed rail.
“Daniel.”
My husband was standing near the window with his back to me.
He hadn't touched me in almost twenty minutes.
That should have frightened me.
Instead, I was too busy trying not to scream.
“Daniel, please.”
He turned.
Daniel Mercer was thirty-eight, handsome in the polished, expensive way that had once made people tell me how lucky I was.
Dark hair.
Gray eyes.
A tailored navy shirt even at two in the morning.
But that night he looked sick.
Not worried.
Not scared.
Guilty.
“Evelyn,” he said quietly. “There's something I need to tell you before she's born.”
I laughed through clenched teeth.
“Unless you're secretly the anesthesiologist, this is a terrible time.”
He didn't smile.
The contraction released me.
I collapsed against the pillow, sweating.
Daniel pulled the visitor's chair closer but didn't sit.
“I should have told you months ago.”
Something cold moved through me.
“About what?”
He rubbed both hands over his face.
“My God.”
“Daniel.”
“You have to understand why I did it.”
I stared at him.
Those are words no married woman wants to hear from her husband.
Not ever.
Especially not while she's in labor.
“Did what?”
The fetal monitor continued its steady rhythm.
Daniel looked toward the door.
Then back at me.
“The embryo.”
My fingers tightened around the blanket.
“What about the embryo?”
We had gone through IVF after four years of infertility.
Four years of hormones.
Appointments.
Needles.
Blood tests.
Two miscarriages.
One failed transfer.
Daniel knew exactly what that baby meant to me.
He knew I had whispered to my stomach every night since I saw two lines on the pregnancy test.
He knew I had painted the nursery pale yellow because I didn't want the stereotypical pink.
He knew I had folded tiny onesies at thirty-six weeks and cried because I couldn't believe I had finally made it this far.
“What about her?” I asked.
Daniel swallowed.
“The embryo they transferred wasn't created with your egg.”
The world went silent.
Even though the monitor was still beeping.
Even though rain still tapped against the glass.
Even though somewhere down the hallway a baby began crying.
I heard nothing.
“What?”
Daniel took a step toward me.
I raised one hand.
“Don't.”
“Evelyn—”
“Say that again.”
His mouth moved before the words came out.
“The egg wasn't yours.”
My heart slammed against my ribs.
I stared at him.
“No.”
“I'm sorry.”
“No.”
Another contraction began.
I curled forward, clutching my stomach.
The pain became unbearable, but suddenly it wasn't the worst thing happening to me.
Daniel reached for my shoulder.
I slapped his hand away.
“Whose?”
He froze.
I looked up at him.
“Whose egg?”
His silence answered before he did.
And somehow I already knew.
There had always been one woman whose name carried too much history in our marriage.
One woman Daniel insisted was “just part of his past.”
One woman he still received birthday texts from.
One woman whose photograph I'd once found hidden inside an old book in his study.
“Rebecca,” I whispered.
Daniel closed his eyes.
That was my answer.
Rebecca Sloan.
His college girlfriend.
His first love.
The woman he had almost married before she left him twelve years ago.
I couldn't breathe.
“You put Rebecca's embryo inside me?”
“Our embryo,” Daniel said.
I stared at him.
His face crumpled.
“The sperm was mine.”
I felt something inside me break.
Not my body.
Something deeper.
“You made a baby with another woman.”
“It isn't like that.”
“And you used me to carry it.”
“Evelyn, please.”
“You used my body.”
His voice dropped.
“Rebecca can't safely carry a pregnancy. Her cardiologist said it could kill her.”
My mouth fell open.
And then I understood.
Not everything.
Enough.
Enough to feel horror sliding through my veins.
“You planned this.”
Daniel said nothing.
I whispered, “You planned this with her.”
“It wasn't supposed to happen this way.”
“What way?”
“You weren't supposed to find out until after the birth.”
For one heartbeat, I couldn't even process the sentence.
Then I laughed.
A broken, breathless sound.
“You were going to wait until after I gave birth?”
“We thought it would be less traumatic.”
“We?”
Daniel looked toward the floor.
Rebecca.
The clinic.
Maybe others.
Everyone but me.
My daughter's heartbeat accelerated on the monitor.
A nurse appeared at the doorway.
“Everything okay?”
“No,” I said immediately.
Daniel said, “She's emotional.”
I turned my head so sharply my neck hurt.
“Get out.”
“Evelyn—”
“GET OUT!”
The nurse entered.
Daniel lifted both palms.
“She's in labor. She's confused.”
I felt something ferocious awaken inside me.
“I am not confused.”
The nurse studied my face.
I pointed at my husband.
“That man just admitted that the fertility clinic implanted another woman's embryo into me without my knowledge.”
The nurse went completely still.
Daniel whispered, “Evelyn.”
“And now,” I continued, shaking, “he expects me to hand over the baby after I give birth.”
The nurse looked at Daniel.
His face changed.
Not guilt anymore.
Fear.
Because someone else had heard it.
“Sir,” she said carefully, “I'm going to ask you to step outside.”
“This is a family matter.”
“No,” I said.
Another contraction crashed through me.
I screamed.
The nurse rushed to my side.
Daniel backed toward the door.
Then he said the sentence that ended our marriage.
“Evelyn, Rebecca is already here.”
I froze.
“What?”
“She came to the hospital.”
My eyes found his.
“She wants to meet her daughter.”
Her daughter.
Not ours.
Not mine.
Hers.
I felt the baby move inside me.
The child I had carried for thirty-nine weeks.
The child whose hiccups had kept me awake.
The child I'd talked to while driving.
The child I'd protected with everything I had.
Daniel took another step backward.
“I need you to stay calm.”
I stared at him through tears.
“Where is she?”
He hesitated.
“Downstairs.”
Waiting.
While I labored.
Waiting for my body to finish doing what hers could not.
Then Daniel said, almost gently, “Once the baby is delivered, we'll make the transition as easy as possible.”
Something inside me became perfectly still.
I reached for the call button.
“No.”
Daniel frowned.
“What?”
“You're not taking this child anywhere.”
“You don't understand the legal situation.”
“Neither do you.”
I pressed the button.
The nurse leaned toward me.
“What do you need?”
I looked directly at Daniel.
“Security.”
May you like
His face drained of color.
“And then,” I said, “I need a lawyer.”
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