“I tried to contact her. She refused. I respected that.”
I laughed once, brokenly. “You respect strangers’ boundaries but read your daughter’s medical records?”
He closed his eyes.
The wound landed.
I wanted it to.
Dorian cleared his throat gently. “There is more.”
Of course there was.
There was always more.
“Mara Voss worked at the clinic that handled several genetic screening reports related to embryos created using your samples.”
My stomach turned.
“My samples?”
My father looked at Dorian.
Dorian’s face was grave. “During your fertility treatments, Adrian authorized additional genetic storage using forms with questionable signatures.”
“My signatures?”
“Forged, likely.”
I pressed both hands to my mouth.
The babies were asleep down the hall, my beautiful sons, innocent and breathing.
“What did he do?”
Dorian’s answer came slowly.
“He was screening for male embryos.”
My mother made a small sound.
Adrian had wanted sons.
He had said it casually at first.
A boy would carry the Vale name.
Then, after we learned I was carrying triplet boys, he had celebrated too loudly. Bought cigars. Called investors. Smiled at my belly like it had finally become valuable.
I had thought it was joy.
It was ownership.
“There were other embryos?” I whispered.
Dorian did not answer fast enough.
My knees weakened.
“How many?”
“Two female embryos remain in storage.”
My hand went to my abdomen, though there was no one there now.
Two daughters.
Not born.
Not lost.
Waiting.
Hidden in paperwork.
I looked at my father. “Did you know?”
“No,” he said immediately. “Not until last night.”
I believed him.
That almost made it worse.
Because his secrets had not caused all of this.
They had simply built the shadows where Adrian’s could grow.
At eight that morning, Mara Voss arrived at Whitmore House.
She did not look like a villain.
She looked exhausted.
Dark hair pulled back. No makeup. A wool coat too thin for the cold. Her eyes found mine and stopped.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then she said, “I’m sorry.”
It was strange.
I had heard apologies from doctors, nurses, friends who did not know what to say.
But hers carried something else.
Guilt.
Knowledge.
Blood.
“You’re my sister,” I said.
Her mouth tightened. “Biologically.”
My father stepped forward. “Mara—”
She held up a hand. “No. Not yet.”
He stopped.
She looked back at me. “Adrian came to the clinic through a private genetic consultant. He wanted control. Sex selection. Embryo reports. Storage access. He paid well and threatened better.”
“Threatened who?”
CONTINUE READING…>>
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