By the time I returned to Natalie’s house, Emma had built a blanket fort across half the living room.
Chloe sat inside reading.
Natalie handed me a plate before I had removed my coat.
“Eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“That wasn’t a question.”
I took the plate.
“Where are the girls sleeping?”
“Apparently inside a textile-based fortress.”
“Good.”
Natalie studied my face.
“You learned more.”
“Yes.”
“How bad?”
“Enough that I don’t want to talk about it in front of them.”
She nodded.
No pressure.
No questions.
Again, exactly why I had come.
After dinner, I helped Emma reinforce the blanket roof with dining chairs. Chloe asked whether Seattle schools had good art classes.
The question startled me.
“You’re thinking about school here?”
She shrugged.
“If we stay.”
I sat on the floor beside her.
“Would that bother you?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s allowed.”
She looked at the blanket wall.
“Dad would be far away.”
“Yes.”
“Would he visit?”
The truth was complicated.
So I gave her the simplest honest version.
“That would be up to him and whatever arrangements the adults make.”
She nodded.
Then she said, “I like Aunt Natalie’s house.”
I smiled.
“So do I.”
Later, after both girls were asleep, Rebecca called.
“Jessica’s attorney contacted me.”
“She got one fast.”
“She needed one.”
“Criminal attorney?”
“Both criminal and reproductive-law counsel.”
That answered enough.
“What does she want?”
“To provide documents.”
“Then provide them.”
“There’s a condition.”
“Of course.”
Rebecca sighed.
“She wants a written agreement that turning the records over voluntarily will not be characterized by us as an admission that she forged your signature.”
I stared at the dark kitchen window.
“Did she forge it?”
“Her attorney says no.”
“Then why does she need language protecting her?”
“Because voluntary production can be mischaracterized later. Her lawyer is doing the job.”
“What documents does she actually have?”
“Original transfer forms, correspondence with Carter, copies of old Oakfield records, and something she calls a private agreement.”
“Between whom?”
“Carter, Jessica, and Richard.”
My chair scraped the floor as I sat straighter.
“What agreement?”
“She won’t send details until terms are settled.”
I closed my eyes.
“Rebecca, every time somebody says agreement, another layer of my life turns out to have been negotiated without me.”
“I know.”
“No. You know legally. I mean they were sitting in rooms making plans about embryos created from my body while I was driving the girls to school.”
Rebecca went quiet.
I immediately regretted the sharpness.
“That wasn’t fair.”
“It was fair enough.”
I rubbed my forehead.
“Will giving her the language hurt us?”
“No, if drafted properly.”
“Then do it.”
“I already sent a limited non-admission clause.”
“Good.”
“She wants to meet tomorrow.”
“Here?”
“Yes.”
“Not at my sister’s house.”
“Absolutely not.”
We arranged the meeting for a law office downtown.
Before hanging up, Rebecca said, “There’s another development.”
“What?”
“The court granted temporary preservation relief.”
“That fast?”
“We demonstrated risk of spoliation.”
“What does Carter have to preserve?”
“Emails, texts, corporate servers, personal devices, cloud storage, and any documents connected to Oakfield, Jessica, the embryo account, succession planning, and your divorce.”
I felt a grim satisfaction.
“So he can’t delete.”
“He was already not supposed to destroy relevant evidence. Now the order makes the obligation explicit.”
“What if he already did?”
“Then forensic recovery may still find it.”
I looked at the gray folder on the kitchen counter.
“Do you think Richard will comply?”
“He has counsel.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“No.”
I appreciated the direct answer.
The following morning, I woke to sixteen messages.
Most were from Carter.
Two from Margaret.
One from Victoria.
And one from an unfamiliar email address.
Subject:
YOU SHOULD KNOW WHY YOUR EMBRYOS WERE KEPT.
I forwarded it to Rebecca without opening the attachment.
She called ten minutes later.
“It appears to be from a former Sterling accountant.”
“Real?”
“We’re verifying.”
“What does it say?”
“The body claims Richard began categorizing the embryo storage as a succession-planning expense six years ago.”
My stomach tightened.
“Six years.”
“Yes.”
“Before Jessica.”
“Yes.”
“Before the affair.”
“Yes.”
“Before our marriage was in trouble.”
“Yes.”
That mattered more than I expected.
For a moment, I had allowed myself to imagine Carter’s worst decisions as something that began with Jessica.
An affair escalating into reproductive betrayal.
But the lie about the embryos was older.
The betrayal had been inside the marriage while I still thought it was stable.
Jessica may have exploited it.
She did not create it.
“Any proof?”
“There’s an attached spreadsheet, but I want metadata verified.”
“Okay.”
“And Lauren?”
“Yes?”
“The accountant says Richard used the phrase ‘male contingency asset.’”
I closed my eyes.
Asset again.
They had built a financial category around the embryo.
My child as a contingency.
My consent as an inconvenience.
At eleven-thirty, I arrived at the meeting.
Jessica was already there.
It was the first time I had seen her in person since learning everything.
Pregnancy had softened her face.
She wore a long gray coat over a black dress, and her hands rested protectively over her stomach when I entered.
I hated that gesture.
Not because she was protecting the baby.
Because part of me recognized the instinct.
Protect.
Shelter.
Keep safe.
That instinct belonged to both of us now, although in ways neither of us had chosen.
Jessica stood.
“Lauren.”
I sat without answering.
Her attorneys introduced themselves.
Rebecca appeared by video again.
Aaron joined me in person.
A document box sat beside Jessica’s chair.
My eyes kept returning to it.
Rebecca began with formalities.
Then Jessica’s attorney slid a signed stipulation across the table.
The non-admission language.
Once everyone confirmed it, Jessica opened the box.
She removed a thick folder.
“These are the original papers Carter gave me.”
Her voice shook slightly.
I looked at her.
“Originals?”
“Yes.”
“Not copies?”
“Originals.”
“How did you get them?”
“Carter gave them to me after the first transfer failed.”
I glanced at Rebecca.
That was unexpected.
“Why?”
“He wanted me to keep everything outside his house.”
“Because I was still living there.”
Jessica looked down.
“Yes.”
The answer was quiet.
At least she did not pretend.
She passed the first document to her lawyer, who passed it to Aaron.
The forged disposition directive.
My supposed signature.
Elaine Mercer as witness.
Aaron inspected the ink.
Rebecca said, “We’ll need forensic examination.”
Jessica nodded.
“I know.”
The next document was the embryo-release authorization.
My name again.
Another fake signature.
This one looked closer to mine.
I stared at it.
Someone had practiced.
I had signed thousands of documents during my marriage.
Tax returns.
School forms.
Corporate-event acknowledgments.
Property agreements.
Finding examples of my handwriting would not have been difficult.
I asked, “Who filled these out?”
Jessica’s attorney intervened.
“My client will answer factual questions within agreed scope.”
Jessica looked at him.
“I can answer.”
Then she looked at me.
“Carter gave them to me completed.”
“Did you ever ask me if I had consented?”
“No.”
“Why?”
She swallowed.
“Because he told me you had.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Her face tightened.
“No.”
“You knew where I lived.”
“Yes.”
“You knew we were married.”
“Yes.”
“You were sleeping with my husband.”
Her lawyer shifted.
Jessica said, “Yes.”
“And you were preparing to have a child using an embryo created from my egg.”
“Yes.”
“But you never thought to verify with me.”
“I believed the documents.”
“No, you chose the version that benefited you.”
Jessica’s eyes filled, but she did not cry.
“I know how it looks.”
“How it looks?”
Rebecca cut in gently.
“Lauren.”
I stopped.
Not because Jessica deserved protection.
Because I needed information more than release.
Jessica opened another folder.
“This is the agreement.”
Three signatures appeared at the bottom.
Carter Sterling.
Richard Sterling.
Jessica Mercer.
The title read:
PRIVATE FAMILY SUCCESSION AND REPRODUCTIVE ARRANGEMENT.
My skin crawled.
Aaron began reading.
I watched his expression change.
“What?” I asked.
He turned the page toward me.
The agreement outlined financial support to Jessica during pregnancy.
Medical expenses.
Housing.
A trust for the child.
Confidentiality.
And a payment.
A very large payment.
Due upon birth of a living male child genetically descended from Carter Sterling.
I looked at Jessica.
“You were being paid.”
Her face went pale.
“It wasn’t payment for the baby.”
“Then what was it?”
“For confidentiality and the risk I was taking.”
“What risk?”
“Pregnancy.”
“You used my embryo.”
“I know.”
“You were paid more if the male embryo worked.”
“The agreement was Richard’s.”
“You signed it.”
“Yes.”
I forced myself to continue.
Another clause addressed the first transfer.
If a female embryo was utilized as a preliminary transfer and did not result in a sustained pregnancy, no succession payment would be due.
I felt physically sick.
Preliminary transfer.
There it was again.
The female embryo reduced to a trial run in a contract.
Jessica whispered, “I argued against that wording.”
I looked at her.
“But you signed it.”
“Yes.”
“Stop telling me what you objected to before doing it anyway.”
She flinched.
Good.
I hated that I felt satisfaction.
But I did.
Aaron read further.
“Here.”
Another clause.
Upon confirmed pregnancy resulting from the male embryo, Carter Sterling would initiate dissolution of marriage within sixty days.
I stopped breathing.
The contract dictated the divorce.
Not after some vague future point.
Sixty days.
I counted backward.
Carter had filed fifty-three days after Jessica’s successful transfer.
Exact compliance.
My marriage had ended on a contractual timetable.
Jessica watched me realize it.
“I’m sorry.”
I looked at her.
“Did Carter write this?”
“No.”
“Richard?”
“His lawyer drafted it.”
“Which lawyer?”
She gave a name I recognized.
Not Carter’s divorce attorney.
Sterling Holdings corporate counsel.
That widened the circle again.
Rebecca asked, “Was the attorney told the embryos belonged genetically to Lauren?”
Jessica hesitated.
“Yes.”
Aaron looked up sharply.
“What was he told about consent?”
“That Lauren had relinquished control.”
“Based on the forged documents?”
“Yes.”
Rebecca wrote something down.
Then Jessica reached into the box and removed a sealed envelope.
“This is why I agreed to meet.”
She placed it in front of me.
“What is it?”
“A letter from my mother.”
Elaine Mercer.
I stared at the envelope.
“When?”
“Written before she died.”
“To whom?”
“To me.”
“Why does it matter?”
Jessica’s hand returned to her stomach.
“Because she explains what happened six years ago.”
The room went very still.
Jessica slid the envelope across the table.
“And she names the person who asked her to create the first fake document.”
Click here to continue reading: PART 11: Elaine Mercer’s Final Letter Named the Person Who Ordered the First Forgery, but Her Explanation Made Carter’s Betrayal Even Older
Five Minutes After Our Marriage Ended, Carter Said Something That Made Leaving With Our Daughters the Only Choice
Part 10 of 35
