Chapter 3 - The Miscarriage That Wasn’t Supposed to Happen
My first pregnancy lasted eleven weeks.
Christian had been ecstatic.
Or performed ecstatic convincingly enough that I still hated myself for remembering it fondly.
We painted a room.
Bought one absurdly expensive stuffed elephant.
Argued about names.
Then I started bleeding.
Dr. Lawson told me nothing could have prevented it.
Marisol’s sister, Ana, had apparently believed otherwise.
“She called me crying after your procedure,” Marisol said.
“Why?”
“She said somebody changed the medication order after Lawson signed it.”
“What medication?”
“I don't know.”
“Who changed it?”
“She wouldn't say.”
Gabriel looked sick.
“Christian?”
Marisol shook her head.
“Ana said it wasn't a doctor.”
Interesting.
Christian had admitted responsibility.
But maybe he hadn't personally designed it.
Maybe someone was using his cruelty for something larger.
Marisol gave me a small flash drive.
“Ana mailed this to me before she disappeared.”
“You waited three years?”
“I couldn't open it.”
“Encryption?”
“No.”
She swallowed.
“I was scared.”
Fair.
Fear has kept better people silent.
Gabriel opened it on an offline hospital laptop.
Mostly corrupted files.
One survived.
An audio recording.
Ana’s voice.
“If anything happens to me, Lawson is falsifying fertility records for the Prescott account.”
Not Christian.
The Prescott account.
Plural.
She continued:
“They're moving biological material under substitute patient names. Some of the women don't know.”
My stomach turned.
Biological material.
Sabrina’s name under mine.
My own fertility treatment.
Leo.
I suddenly didn't want to know.
Which meant I had to.
Ana mentioned another name.
Evelyn Prescott.
Christian’s mother.
Gabriel whispered:
“No.”
I looked at him.
“You know something.”
“Christian doesn’t make major family decisions without Evelyn.”
My future mother-in-law had always adored me.
Expensive birthday gifts.
Weekly calls.
She once told People magazine I was “the daughter God forgot to give her.”
I suddenly remembered one detail.
After my second miscarriage, Evelyn—not Christian—had insisted I remain with Dr. Lawson.
“He understands the Prescott family.”
At the time, I thought she meant discretion.
Now I wondered what else the Prescott family expected him to understand.
Gabriel opened another file.
Financial transactions.
Prescott Family Foundation.
Lawson Fertility Institute.
Regular payments.
Millions over eight years.
Then footsteps stopped outside.
Christian’s voice.
“Gabriel?”
We looked at each other.
Marisol grabbed the laptop.
Gabriel shoved the file beneath my blanket.
I closed my eyes.
Christian entered.
His hand touched my forehead.
Then he whispered:
“Still sleeping?”
A pause.
I felt him lean closer.
Then something cold touched my IV line.
Not a hand.
May you like
Plastic.
A syringe cap clicking open.
