PART 2: I HEARD MY HUSBAND PLOTTING TO TAKE MY FATHER’S $10 MILLION—SO I LET HIM CELEBRATE A TRANSFER THAT WOULD NEVER COME

For nearly six years, I had known the small rhythms of his mornings. The way his breathing changed seconds before he woke. The slight crease between his eyebrows when he remembered an unfinished task. The way he reached for me before opening his eyes, as though affection were instinct.

That morning, he did exactly that.

His fingers brushed my arm.

“Morning,” he murmured.

I turned toward him and forced my expression into something familiar.

“Morning.”

He smiled sleepily. “You barely slept.”

“I had a headache.”

His concern appeared immediate and convincing. He touched the back of his hand to my forehead.

“You should stay home today.”

For one reckless second, I wanted to ask which version of him was real.

The husband checking my temperature?

Or the man who had called my trust a weakness?

Instead, I gave him a faint smile. “I’ll be fine.”

Hunter sat up, already reaching for his phone. The screen lit his face as he scanned several messages. His mouth tightened briefly, then relaxed.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

“Just work.”

He placed the phone facedown.

That small movement told me more than the answer.

I got out of bed and crossed to the bathroom. Once the door was closed, I gripped the edge of the marble counter and stared at my reflection.

My eyes were swollen, though I had not cried. My face looked strangely composed, like a portrait of a woman pretending to be herself.

I removed my wedding ring.

The pale indentation around my finger startled me. It looked like evidence of something that had been there for a long time and vanished overnight.

Then I put the ring back on.

Not because I still believed in what it represented.

Because Hunter needed to believe I did.

By eight thirty, I was seated across from my father in the private conference room of his downtown office.

Nathaniel Mercer had built his investment firm from a rented room above a hardware store. He was not a loud man, nor did he rely on intimidation. His strength came from patience. He could sit through an hour of exaggerations and detect the single sentence that mattered.

That morning, he looked older than he had the day before.

A gray suit hung neatly from his shoulders. His silver hair was combed back, but his tie remained undone on the table beside him. Two untouched cups of coffee sat between us.

“I instructed the bank to suspend every transfer connected to the Apex agreement,” he said. “Nothing moves without my direct authorization.”

“What about our joint accounts?”

“Those are being reviewed.”

My heart tightened. “Can Hunter access them?”

“He can access the household account and the personal account you share. He cannot access your trust, your inheritance account, or any of the Mercer family investment funds.”

“I didn’t even know the inheritance account was active.”

“That was intentional.”

I looked up sharply.

My father folded his hands. “Your mother and I created it before she died. I never told Hunter. I wasn’t certain how he would react to knowing the full extent of what would eventually come to you.”

“You didn’t trust him.”

“I wanted to.”

There was a difference, and we both heard it.

I pushed my coffee away. “Did you suspect something?”

My father did not answer immediately.

That hesitation made my stomach turn.

“Dad?”

“Eighteen months ago, Hunter approached one of my senior advisers without telling you. He asked whether your future inheritance could be used as collateral for an expansion loan.”

I stared at him.

“He said it was only a preliminary question,” my father continued. “He claimed he wanted to avoid burdening you with business details until he knew the option existed.”

“And you never told me?”

“I confronted him privately. He apologized. He said he had allowed pressure to cloud his judgment.” My father’s expression tightened. “I believed embarrassment might correct the behavior. I was wrong.”

The betrayal widened inside me, reaching backward into memories I had not known were compromised.

Eighteen months ago, Hunter had taken me to Charleston for our anniversary. He had booked a room overlooking the harbor and spent an entire evening talking about starting a family.

Had he already been measuring the value of my future?

“How bad is Apex?” I asked.

My father opened a folder and turned several pages toward me.

Rows of numbers filled the paper. I understood enough to recognize the pattern. Declining revenue. Expanding liabilities. Loans taken against projected earnings that had never appeared.

“They are close to missing payroll,” he said. “The ten million would not simply grow the company. It would keep it alive.”

“Hunter told me they were expanding.”

“They are presenting expansion plans to investors. In reality, much of the investment would cover existing obligations.”

“Is that illegal?”

“Not necessarily. It depends on what was disclosed, to whom, and when.”

I looked at the documents again. “So if you withdraw…”

“Apex may collapse.”

The words settled heavily between us.

Last night, I had told my father I wanted him to destroy Hunter. In the cold light of morning, destruction looked less satisfying than I had imagined.

Apex employed eighty-three people.

They had mortgages, children, medical bills, lives that had nothing to do with my marriage.

“I don’t want innocent employees hurt,” I said.

“I know.”

“I want Hunter stopped. Not everyone around him punished.”

My father leaned back, and for the first time that morning, something like relief softened his face.

“That is why we are not acting impulsively.”

He explained the plan.

The transfer would not occur. Instead, the bank would send a routine notice that the investment was undergoing final compliance review. Hunter would believe the delay was procedural. Meanwhile, my father’s legal and financial teams would examine Apex’s records under the due-diligence rights Hunter had already granted them.

If the company could be stabilized without rewarding fraud, my father would consider a restructuring that protected employees and removed Hunter from control.

“If there is fraud,” my father said, “we document it. If there is only terrible judgment, we separate the company from the man who made it.”

“And my marriage?”

“That decision belongs to you.”

I looked down at my wedding ring.

“I don’t know who I married.”

“You married the person he showed you. You are not foolish because he concealed the rest.”

The kindness in his voice almost broke me.

I had spent the night clinging to anger because anger required action. Grief was more dangerous. Grief asked me to remember.

Hunter teaching me to drive a manual transmission in an empty parking lot.

Hunter sleeping upright in a hospital chair when I had pneumonia.

Hunter crying into my hair after our first miscarriage, telling me we would survive it together.

Were those moments false?

Or could a person love you and still decide to use you?

I hated that the second possibility hurt more.

My father reached across the table and covered my hand.

“Kylie, there is one more thing.”

I braced myself.

“The call you overheard may not be the only evidence.”

He slid a small black folder toward me.

Inside were copies of emails between Hunter and a consultant named Julian Cross. The exchanges discussed “post-investment leadership changes,” “personal asset separation,” and “timing considerations following the Mercer capital injection.”

My name never appeared.

I was referred to as “the family connection.”

The phrase made me feel strangely weightless.

“I need to go home,” I said.

My father studied me. “Why?”

“Because Hunter is hosting a celebration dinner tonight.”

His jaw tightened. “Cancel it.”

“No.”

“Kylie—”

“He thinks he has won.” I closed the folder. “You told me men like him reveal themselves when they believe they’ve already won.”

My father’s gaze held mine for a long moment.

Then he nodded once.

“Do not be alone with him if you feel unsafe.”

“I don’t think he’ll hurt me.”

“Neither did you think he would do this.”

The words were gentle, but they followed me all the way home.

By noon, our house had become a stage.

A catering team moved through the kitchen arranging platters. White flowers stood in glass vases along the dining table. Hunter had ordered vintage champagne and invited six people from Apex, including his chief financial officer, Martin Shaw.

He had also invited Isabelle.

I learned that from the seating cards.

Her name was positioned directly across from mine.

For several seconds, I stood in the dining room holding the small cream card between my fingers.

ISABELLE VALE.

The elegant black lettering looked absurdly ordinary.

“Kylie?”

I turned.

Hunter stood in the doorway, wearing the navy suit I had bought him for his thirty-fifth birthday. He looked handsome, polished, and exhausted beneath the confidence.

“You like the setup?” he asked.

“It’s beautiful.”

He crossed the room and wrapped his arms around my waist.

I kept my hands at my sides for half a second too long.

He noticed.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Just overwhelmed.”

His expression softened. “This changes everything for us.”

For us.

I almost laughed.

Instead, I smoothed his tie. “Does it?”

“Of course.” His hands rested at my waist. “No more worrying. No more late nights. We can finally start living.”

“Whose life?”

His smile flickered.

“What?”

I lifted my brows innocently. “I said, what kind of life?”

Relief returned to his face.

“A bigger one,” he said. “The one we always talked about.”

I wondered whether he remembered those conversations differently. I had talked about children, travel, and time together. Hunter had talked about a larger house, private investors, and becoming someone people could not ignore.

At the time, I had mistaken ambition for vision.

The doorbell rang at seven.

Martin arrived first with his wife, Elena. Then came two directors from Apex, followed by a corporate attorney named Rachel Dunn. Each congratulated Hunter as though the money had already arrived.

Isabelle came last.

She wore a pale green dress and carried a bottle of wine she knew I liked.

For one surreal moment, she stood on my doorstep smiling the same smile she had worn through birthdays, funerals, vacations, and Sunday brunches.

“Kylie.” She hugged me. “You look beautiful.”

Her perfume was familiar. Jasmine and amber.

I remembered lending her that dress two years ago.

I remembered her sitting on my bathroom floor after a breakup, asking whether she was impossible to love.

I had told her no.

I had told her that anyone who failed to see her worth did not deserve her.

Now she was carrying my husband’s child.

Or claiming she was.

“You too,” I said.

She pulled back and searched my face, perhaps looking for suspicion.

I offered none.

Hunter appeared behind me.

His eyes met Isabelle’s for less than a second.

It was brief, but intimate in its caution.

“Glad you could make it,” he said.

“I wouldn’t miss this.”

No one else noticed the hidden meaning.

I noticed everything.

At dinner, Hunter sat at the head of the table. He spoke easily about Apex’s future, describing new offices, international clients, and a technology division that would supposedly transform the company.

Martin listened without smiling.

That interested me.

The others asked questions, but Martin barely touched his food. He kept glancing toward Hunter as though waiting for him to say something dangerous.

Finally, Rachel raised her glass.

“To Apex,” she said, “and to the Mercer investment that will take it to the next level.”

Everyone lifted their glasses.

I lifted mine too.

Hunter looked directly at me.

“And to my wife,” he said. “None of this would have been possible without Kylie.”

The room filled with warm agreement.

Isabelle smiled into her champagne.

I thought of the phrase from the emails.

The family connection.

“To partnership,” I said.

My voice was steady.

Hunter’s smile widened.

Glasses touched.

The sound was delicate and bright.

Halfway through the main course, Hunter’s phone vibrated beside his plate.

He glanced down.

I saw the message before he turned the screen away.

TRANSFER PENDING: ADDITIONAL AUTHORIZATION REQUIRED.

His hand tightened around the phone.

“Problem?” Martin asked.

“Nothing important.”

Hunter stood. “Excuse me for a moment.”

He left the dining room.

Three seconds later, Isabelle’s phone vibrated.

She did not check it immediately. She waited, then placed her napkin beside her plate.

“I need some air.”

I watched her follow him toward the terrace.

No one commented.

Elena asked me about the flowers.

I answered calmly, then excused myself and walked toward the kitchen. Instead of going inside, I stopped in the narrow hall beside the terrace doors.

Hunter’s voice came through the glass.

“It’s a compliance delay.”

“How long?” Isabelle asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You said it was done.”

“It is done.”

“You also said we would tell her this week.”

My heart pounded, but I forced myself to breathe slowly.

Hunter lowered his voice. “This isn’t the time.”

“When is the time, Hunter? I can’t keep hiding.”

“You’ve hidden it for months.”

“That was before.”

“Before what?”

A long silence followed.

Then Isabelle said, “Before I realized you might not leave her.”

The words surprised me.

Hunter answered sharply. “I told you the plan.”

“You told me a lot of things.”

“Lower your voice.”

“No. I need to know whether this is real or whether I’m just another promise you made because you needed something.”

Another promise.

The phrase lodged in my mind.

Hunter stepped closer to her; I could hear the shift of his shoes against the stone.

“You know what this is.”

“Do I?”

“After the transfer clears, everything changes.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“It will.”

“You don’t sound certain.”

“I am handling it.”

Isabelle laughed, but there was no joy in it. “That is what you always say.”

I moved away before they returned.

Back at the table, Martin was telling a story about Apex’s first office, but his eyes followed me as I sat down.

He knew something.

I was almost sure of it.

Hunter and Isabelle returned separately. Hunter apologized for the interruption and resumed his speech about the future. Isabelle drank water and avoided looking at either of us.

Dessert arrived.

A chocolate torte with gold lettering across the top:

THE NEXT CHAPTER.

I nearly admired the irony.

Hunter cut the first slice and placed it in front of me.

“For the woman who believed in me before anyone else did.”

Martin set down his fork.

The movement was soft, but decisive.

“Hunter,” he said, “perhaps we should postpone the expansion announcements until the funds clear.”

The room went quiet.

Hunter gave him a tight smile. “The funds are clearing.”

“We received a notice this afternoon.”

“A standard authorization check.”

Martin’s gaze did not move. “That isn’t how Nathaniel Mercer’s office described it.”

My pulse quickened.

Hunter’s expression remained controlled. “You spoke to Nathaniel’s office?”

“As CFO, I am included in communications related to a ten-million-dollar investment.”

A faint color rose in Hunter’s face.

Rachel leaned forward. “What exactly did they say?”

“That due diligence is ongoing and no final funding decision has been issued.”

All eyes shifted toward Hunter.

He laughed softly. “A technical distinction.”

“An important one,” Martin replied.

The tension in the room changed. It was no longer mine alone. It moved from face to face, drawing concern into the celebration.

Hunter looked at me.

“Did your father mention a delay?”

There it was.

The first test.

I widened my eyes slightly. “No. He told me the paperwork was being finalized.”

Not a lie.

Not the truth he wanted.

Hunter studied me, then nodded.

“I’ll call him in the morning.”

“Of course,” I said.

Isabelle’s fingers tightened around her water glass.

The dinner ended earlier than planned.

One by one, the guests offered polite congratulations that no longer sounded certain. Elena hugged me before leaving and whispered, “Call me sometime.”

I did not know whether it was sympathy or intuition.

Martin was the last to go.

At the door, he shook Hunter’s hand, then turned to me.

“Mrs. Cole, may I speak with you privately tomorrow?”

Hunter answered before I could.

“Anything concerning Apex can come through me.”

Martin kept his eyes on mine.

“It concerns your signature.”

The room seemed to narrow.

“My signature on what?” I asked.

Hunter stepped beside me. “Martin, not tonight.”

Martin’s expression hardened. “Tomorrow, then.”

He left without further explanation.

I closed the door slowly.

Behind me, Hunter exhaled.

“What was that about?” I asked.

“Martin is under pressure.”

“He mentioned my signature.”

“Routine spousal-consent forms.”

“I don’t remember signing any.”

Hunter loosened his tie. “You signed several documents when your father first proposed the investment.”

“I signed a confidentiality agreement.”

“And preliminary approvals.”

“Did I?”

He looked at me carefully.

For the first time, I saw uncertainty in his eyes.

Not guilt.

Calculation.

He was trying to remember how much I knew.

“I’ll have the office send you copies,” he said.

“Good.”

He took a step closer. “You seem different tonight.”

“My husband just announced our future to a room full of people before the money arrived. Maybe I’m nervous.”

He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes.

“You don’t need to be.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ve taken care of everything.”

The confidence in his voice sent a chill through me.

“What does that mean?”

“It means trust me.”

The phrase might once have comforted me.

Now it sounded like a locked door.

I reached up and touched his cheek, performing tenderness with a precision that frightened me.

“I do,” I said.

His shoulders relaxed.

That was when I understood the true power of trust.

It was not only something another person could betray.

It was also something they could underestimate.

Hunter went upstairs to change. I remained in the dining room, gathering abandoned glasses while the catering staff packed away the remaining food.

Isabelle’s wineglass sat near her chair, a faint mark of lipstick on the rim.

Beside it lay a folded paper napkin.

I picked it up.

Something was written inside.

Not a message to Hunter.

A phone number.

Underneath it were four words.

ASK ABOUT THE BLUE FILE.

I stared at the handwriting.

It was Isabelle’s.

I looked toward the stairs.

Had she left it for me?

Or had she written it for someone else?

I slipped the napkin into my pocket.

At midnight, Hunter fell asleep beside me again.

This time, I did not watch him.

I waited until his breathing deepened, then carried my phone into the guest bathroom and locked the door.

I dialed the number from the napkin.

A man answered after the second ring.

“Hello?”

I did not speak.

“Is this Kylie Cole?”

My grip tightened around the phone.

“Who is this?”

“My name is Julian Cross.”

The consultant from Hunter’s emails.

I leaned against the sink.

“How did you get this number?”

“I didn’t. You called me.”

“How did you know it was me?”

“Because Isabelle told me you might.”

The room seemed to tilt.

“What does Isabelle want me to ask you?”

A pause.

“The blue file.”

“What is it?”

“Not over the phone.”

“Then we have nothing to discuss.”

I started to disconnect.

“Your father’s ten million is not the only thing Hunter is trying to take.”

I stopped.

“What else?”

“Control of your inheritance trust.”

Cold spread through my hands.

“He can’t access it.”

“Not directly.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means someone submitted documents claiming you authorized Hunter to act on your behalf if you became medically incapable of managing your finances.”

I could barely form the next words.

“I never signed anything like that.”

“I know.”

“How?”

“Because I prepared the original documents.”

I covered my mouth, afraid my breathing would wake Hunter through the wall.

“Where are they?”

“The copies are in the blue file.”

“Where is the file?”

“I gave it to Isabelle.”

I closed my eyes.

Nothing made sense.

Isabelle was betraying me with my husband. Yet she had left me a number connecting me to evidence against him.

“Why would she help me?”

Julian’s voice softened.

“Because she is frightened.”

“Of Hunter?”

“Of what she agreed to do.”

I remembered her words on the terrace.

Before I realized you might not leave her.

“What did she agree to?”

“I can’t answer that safely until I know whether Hunter can hear you.”

“He can’t.”

“Are you certain?”

I looked toward the locked door.

“No,” I admitted.

“Then meet me tomorrow at ten. The café inside the Ashford Museum. Sit near the north window.”

“Why should I trust you?”

“You shouldn’t. Bring someone.”

He ended the call.

I remained in the bathroom for several minutes, staring at the dark screen.

When I finally returned to bed, Hunter had rolled onto his side.

His eyes were open.

“Who were you talking to?” he asked.

My heart stopped.

The bedroom was dark except for the clock on his nightstand.

12:17.

I set my phone down.

“My father.”

“At midnight?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

Hunter pushed himself up against the pillows. “What did he say about the transfer?”

“That the bank needed another authorization.”

“From whom?”

“I didn’t ask.”

His voice sharpened. “Why not?”

I let silence answer for me.

He rubbed a hand over his face. “I’m sorry. I’m stressed.”

“I can see that.”

“This deal affects a lot of people.”

“Eighty-three employees.”

He looked surprised. “You remember?”

“You talk in your sleep.”

For a moment, he stared at me.

Then he laughed uncertainly. “What else do I say?”

I climbed beneath the blanket and turned off the lamp.

“Nothing important.”

I felt his gaze on me long after I closed my eyes.

The next morning, Hunter left before seven.

He kissed my forehead and said he was meeting with the bank. The gesture was so familiar that my body almost responded before my mind stopped it.

At eight, I met my father’s attorney, Lydia Chen, in the parking garage beneath his office.

She was in her early forties, with a quiet voice and a habit of listening without interrupting. My father trusted her completely, which meant I did too.

I told her about Julian Cross and the medical-incapacity documents.

Her expression changed.

“Did Hunter ever ask you to sign a durable financial power of attorney?”

“No.”

“Did you sign documents while hospitalized?”

My breath caught.

Two years ago, I had undergone emergency surgery after a ruptured ovarian cyst. Hunter had brought paperwork to the hospital, telling me it was related to insurance and temporary access to our accounts.

“I signed something after surgery.”

“Were you taking pain medication?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have copies?”

“No.”

Lydia’s face remained calm, but her eyes sharpened.

“We’ll request everything from the hospital and your financial institutions.”

“Can he really take control of my trust?”

“Not simply because a document exists. There are safeguards. Medical findings would be required, and fraudulent paperwork can be challenged. But if someone intended to create the appearance of incapacity over time, they might begin by collecting signatures and building a record.”

“A record of what?”

“Instability. Confusion. Poor judgment.”

I remembered the past year differently all at once.

Hunter encouraging me to see a therapist after the miscarriage.

Hunter insisting on managing our bills because I was “too overwhelmed.”

Hunter telling friends I had become forgetful.

Each moment had seemed like concern.

Together, they formed something else.

“I need to meet Julian,” I said.

“You’re not going alone.”

At ten, Lydia and I entered the Ashford Museum café.

Rain streaked the tall windows, turning the city outside into gray watercolor. Julian sat near the north window exactly as promised.

He was younger than I expected, perhaps thirty, with wire-rimmed glasses and a brown leather case on the chair beside him.

He stood when he saw us.

“Kylie.”

“This is Lydia Chen, my attorney.”

Relief crossed his face. “Good.”

We sat.

Julian did not touch his coffee.

“I worked with Hunter for three years,” he began. “Strategy, investor presentations, restructuring plans. Six months ago, he asked me to review a set of personal financial documents.”

“Mine,” I said.

“Yes.”

Lydia leaned forward. “Did you know Mrs. Cole had not authorized the review?”

“No. Hunter told me Kylie had requested it privately because she did not want her father involved.”

“What documents?”

“Draft power-of-attorney forms, trust summaries, medical releases, and a proposed letter from a physician.”

My stomach tightened. “What physician?”

“I never saw a name.”

“Why did you continue?”

Julian looked at me, and shame moved across his face.

“Because Apex was failing. Hunter convinced me the investment would save the company, and that temporary control of your trust was a contingency your family had already discussed.”

“That makes no sense.”

“I know that now.”

“What changed?”

“Isabelle.”

Lydia and I exchanged a glance.

Julian continued. “She contacted me three weeks ago. She said Hunter had asked her to provide written statements about your emotional condition.”

I felt as if someone had quietly removed the floor beneath me.

“My best friend was supposed to say I was unstable?”

“Yes.”

“What did she say?”

“That you had become withdrawn, suspicious, and unable to make important decisions.”

The description was close enough to grief to sound believable.

I looked down at my hands.

After the miscarriage, I had withdrawn. I had forgotten appointments. I had struggled to get out of bed.

Hunter and Isabelle had known every private detail.

They had sat beside me during the most vulnerable months of my life.

And somewhere along the way, my pain had become useful.

“Did she write the statement?” Lydia asked.

“Yes.”

The answer cut deeper than I expected.

“Then why is she helping me now?” I whispered.

“Because Hunter changed the plan.”

Julian opened the leather case and removed a blue folder.

He placed it on the table.

“Originally, the documents were supposed to give him temporary authority if the Mercer investment was delayed. He claimed it was a safeguard for both of you.”

“And later?”

“Last week, he asked me to revise the restructuring proposal so your trust assets could guarantee Apex’s private debt.”

Lydia opened the folder and scanned the first page.

“These signatures need forensic review.”

“They aren’t mine,” I said.

Julian nodded. “Isabelle suspected the same thing. She told me she had agreed to support Hunter because she believed he loved her and would leave the marriage. When she discovered he was preparing documents that kept him legally tied to Kylie’s assets for years, she realized he had lied to both of them.”

A bitter laugh escaped me.

“So she betrayed me, then became offended when he betrayed her.”

Julian did not disagree.

“Where is Isabelle now?” Lydia asked.

“I don’t know. She stopped responding this morning.”

My phone vibrated on the table.

Hunter.

I let it ring.

A second call came immediately.

Then a message.

CALL ME. YOUR FATHER HAS FROZEN EVERYTHING.

Julian’s face went pale.

“He knows?”

“He knows the transfer is frozen,” I said. “Not about this meeting.”

Another message appeared.

MARTIN IS MISSING.

I looked up.

“Why would Hunter say his CFO is missing?”

Julian reached for his phone. “Martin contacted me yesterday. He wanted copies of the debt reports.”

“Did you send them?”

“Yes.”

Lydia closed the blue file. “We need to leave.”

Before we could stand, a woman appeared beside our table.

Isabelle.

Rain darkened the shoulders of her coat. Her hair clung to her cheeks, and her face was drained of color.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

She looked at me.

“I’m sorry.”

The words were almost inaudible.

I stood slowly.

“You don’t get to begin with that.”

“I know.”

“Are you pregnant?”

Her eyes filled, but she did not look away.

“Yes.”

“With Hunter’s child?”

Julian lowered his gaze.

Lydia remained still.

Isabelle gripped the strap of her bag. “That’s what I believed.”

“What does that mean?”

She reached inside the bag and removed a sealed envelope.

“I received the clinic report this morning.”

My heart pounded.

She placed the envelope on the table between us.

“I never saw the original fertility paperwork,” she said. “Hunter handled everything.”

“Fertility paperwork?”

Her voice shook.

“He told me he couldn’t have children naturally. He said you both had embryos stored from your treatments, but that they were legally his too. He said one embryo had been transferred with donor consent.”

The café sounds faded around me.

I could not understand the sentence.

“What embryo?”

Isabelle began to cry silently.

“The clinic says the genetic mother is not me.”

I stared at the envelope.

Lydia reached for it, then stopped, waiting for my permission.

My lips felt numb.

“Who is the genetic mother?”

Isabelle looked directly at me.

“Kylie,” she whispered, “the baby I’m carrying is yours.”

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