Chapter 11 - The Forgotten Cycles
Dr. Thorne ordered a complete reconstruction of every IVF cycle I had undergone.
Not summaries.
Not electronic charts.
Everything.
Original laboratory backups.
Billing records.
Microscope images.
Genetic testing files.
Cryostorage logs.
Courier manifests.
By the end of the week, fourteen people were working on my history.
I stopped calling it my medical file.
It was a crime scene.
Cycle one had truly failed.
Cycle two had produced one abnormal embryo.
Cycle three had been different.
The report Marcus and I received said none of the embryos reached blastocyst stage.
The original laboratory record said two had.
I stared at the screen.
“Two.”
Dr. Thorne nodded.
“One was genetically abnormal.”
“And the other?”
“Normal.”
“Lucas.”
“Possibly.”
Genetic comparison later confirmed it.
Lucas had come from my third IVF cycle.
Not my fifth.
That meant the three embryos from the fifth cycle represented Noah, Mila, and the early pregnancy I had never known about.
The lost twin Chloe mentioned had not been genetically tested independently.
It had likely been created from another embryo source.
The web became more complicated with every answer.
“How many viable embryos did I actually have across all my treatments?”
I asked.
Dr. Thorne looked down.
“Six.”
I laughed.
For six years, Marcus told me my body could not create life.
In reality, six embryos had survived long enough to be potentially viable.
One became Noah.
One became Mila.
One became Lucas.
One had implanted briefly in me.
One was lost during Chloe’s twin pregnancy.
One remained unaccounted for.
“Another?”
“Yes.”
“Which cycle?”
“Fourth.”
I closed my eyes.
“Where is it?”
“We do not know yet.”
Dana swore.
Dr. Thorne looked sick.
I almost pitied him.
Almost.
“Find it.”
“We will.”
“No.”
I looked at him.
“You will not stop when the hospital becomes embarrassed.”
“You will not stop when donors call.”
“You will not stop when lawyers threaten.”
“You will not stop because saving Crestview becomes easier than finding my child.”
His jaw tightened.
“I will not.”
“Good.”
The shelter board called an emergency meeting two days later.
For the first time in a year, I walked into Harbor House.
The receptionist saw me.
Her mouth fell open.
“Elena?”
I smiled.
“Hi, Molly.”
She ran around the desk and hugged me.
I had not expected that.
I almost cried.
Employees appeared from offices.
Some looked relieved.
Some ashamed.
A few would not meet my eyes.
They had believed Marcus.
Or pretended to.
The board waited upstairs.
Marcus’s portrait still hung in the conference room.
Chairman.
Benefactor.
Community leader.
I took it off the wall before sitting.
No one stopped me.
The interim board president cleared his throat.
“Elena, we owe you an apology.”
“Yes.”
He blinked.
Apparently he expected me to reassure him.
I did not.
“We believed information provided by Marcus.”
“You chose to believe it.”
“We thought—”
“You removed the founder of this organization without giving her one hearing.”
Silence.
“You accepted a psychiatrist’s report from a fertility physician.”
Several faces changed.
“You accepted Chloe’s word that I was emotionally dangerous.”
No one answered.
“You watched Marcus take control.”
“You watched funding disappear.”
“And none of you asked why.”
An older board member named Nora Blake began crying.
“I did.”
I looked at her.
“I asked.”
“And?”
“They removed me from the finance committee.”
I remembered.
Marcus said Nora had become difficult.
Another lie.
She opened a folder.
“I kept copies.”
Of course she did.
People like Marcus always underestimated quiet women with filing cabinets.
Nora had six months of budgets.
Grant disbursements.
Vendor invoices.
She had marked Northstar transactions in red.
“I told Marcus these invoices did not match work performed.”
“What did he say?”
“That you approved Northstar before leaving.”
My jaw tightened.
“I had never heard of it.”
“I know that now.”
“Why didn’t you call me?”
Nora looked ashamed.
“I did.”
“I never received anything.”
“I left voicemails.”
“My number changed.”
“I wrote.”
“To the estate?”
“Yes.”
Marcus again.
Always Marcus between me and the truth.
Nora pushed another document toward me.
“There’s something worse.”
“How much worse?”
“Northstar billed Harbor House for a satellite facility.”
I frowned.
“We never opened one.”
“I know.”
“Where?”
“Delaware.”
“What facility?”
“Family transition center.”
Dana read the paperwork.
Her face hardened.
“This address belongs to Mercer BioLegacy.”
I stared.
Marcus had used my shelter to subsidize his fertility operation.
A charity created to protect vulnerable women had been funding a company exploiting women’s reproductive material.
The cruelty was almost elegant.
“What do we do?”
The interim president asked.
I looked around the table.
“We return every stolen dollar.”
“How?”
“Sell anything purchased with shelter funds.”
“Freeze Marcus’s accounts.”
“Recover fraudulent payments.”
“Ask donors for forensic support.”
“And after that?”
Someone asked.
“We rebuild.”
The interim president swallowed.
“Will you come back?”
Everyone looked at me.
A year earlier, I would have said yes immediately.
Harbor House had been my identity.
Now I had children scattered across courtrooms and continents.
“I don’t know.”
Silence.
“For once, I am not making a decision because everyone else needs something from me.”
Nora smiled.
“Good.”
That afternoon, the Bennetts requested a meeting.
No lawyers at first.
Just us.
Evelyn brought Lucas.
I nearly turned around when I saw him.
He had Marcus’s dark hair.
My green eyes.
He clutched a toy dinosaur.
He stared at me with the solemn suspicion only toddlers possess.
Evelyn looked terrified.
“He knows you’re a friend.”
I swallowed.
“Okay.”
“I didn’t tell him more.”
“That’s okay.”
Lucas hid behind her leg.
I crouched.
“Hi.”
He said nothing.
I held up the dinosaur’s twin I had purchased that morning.
His eyes widened.
Evelyn almost laughed.
“He loves those.”
“I guessed.”
Lucas slowly approached.
“Triceratops.”
He pronounced it badly.
I smiled.
“Exactly.”
He corrected my pronunciation.
I laughed.
Five minutes later, he was showing me how the dinosaurs fought.
Twenty minutes later, he sat beside me.
Forty minutes later, he asked for juice.
Normal.
Painfully normal.
Evelyn watched every movement.
Eventually she whispered, “I thought I would hate you.”
I looked at her.
“I thought I might hate you too.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
She cried.
“I didn’t steal him.”
“I know.”
“I wanted a child for eleven years.”
I looked at Lucas.
“So did I.”
That sentence joined us in a way neither wanted.
Thomas remained guarded.
“What are you asking for?”
I answered honestly.
“I don’t know yet.”
“We are his parents.”
“Yes.”
“You’re saying that?”
“Yes.”
He looked surprised.
“You don’t want custody?”
“I want my son to know me.”
“Biology doesn’t make you his mother.”
Evelyn flinched.
I felt the words cut.
Then I nodded.
“You’re right.”
Thomas had not expected that.
“Biology makes me his biological mother.”
“You are the people who changed his diapers.”
“Sat through fevers.”
“Taught him to walk.”
“Know which cereal he refuses to eat.”
“I cannot pretend those three years did not happen.”
Evelyn covered her mouth.
“But Marcus cannot make me a stranger forever.”
Thomas looked down.
“No.”
It was the beginning.
Not a solution.
But a beginning.
That evening, Dana called.
They had found the sixth embryo.
Or rather, they had found where it went.
“Cyprus.”
I closed my eyes.
“Another carrier?”
“No.”
“Recipient couple.”
“Names?”
“Jonathan and Elise Ward.”
“American?”
“Yes.”
“Where are they now?”
“Seattle.”
“Child?”
Silence.
“Dana.”
“A girl.”
My chest tightened.
“How old?”
“Four.”
Four years old.
Older than Lucas.
“What’s her name?”
“Claire.”
I sat down.
Another daughter.
“Do they know?”
“We contacted their attorney.”
“And?”
“They knew the embryo was not donated.”
My body went cold.
“What?”
Dana’s voice hardened.
“They specifically paid for a non-consensual genetic profile.”
I could not process it.
“They knew someone’s embryo had been stolen?”
“According to Adrian’s ledger, yes.”
“Why?”
“They wanted a child with certain traits.”
“What traits?”
“Education.”
“Family medical history.”
“Appearance.”
I felt sick.
“Mine.”
“Yes.”
“And Marcus’s.”
“Yes.”
“How much did they pay?”
“One-point-two million.”
I could barely breathe.
“Where is Claire?”
“At home.”
“Are they going to run?”
“Federal agents are watching them.”
I stood.
“I want to see the contract.”
Dana hesitated.
“It’s ugly.”
“I have survived ugly.”
She sent it.
The language looked like an investment agreement.
GENETIC ASSET PROFILE.
TRANSFER OF REPRODUCTIVE MATERIAL.
CONFIDENTIALITY.
NON-DISCLOSURE.
Then a clause highlighted by investigators.
RECIPIENTS ACKNOWLEDGE THAT SOURCE-PARTY CONSENT MAY BE INCOMPLETE OR UNAVAILABLE.
I stared.
They knew.
Below it was a selection sheet.
Eye color preference.
Height range.
Education.
Health.
I found my profile number.
E-M32.
Beside it, handwritten:
FIRST CHOICE.
I felt something inside me turn to ice.
Evelyn Bennett had unknowingly raised my son.
Chloe had deceived herself until deception became impossible.
Sofia had been manipulated.
But Jonathan and Elise Ward had paid extra because they knew the genetic mother had never consented.
And they had raised my daughter for four years believing money made that acceptable.
Dana’s voice came through the phone.
“Elena?”
“I’m here.”
“There’s another detail.”
“What?”
“The person who approved the sale was not Marcus.”
I stared at the contract.
“Then who?”
Dana answered quietly.
“Chloe.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“Her signature?”
“Yes.”
This time, not forged.
Authenticated.
And beneath it was her title.
DIRECTOR OF CLIENT ACQUISITION.
MERCER BIOLEGACY.
My former best friend had not merely helped Marcus steal my children.
May you like
For at least one of them, she had helped him sell one.
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