Chapter 8 - THE FILE WITH MY FATHER'S NAME
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I didn't go alone.
Victor would never allow it.
Two investigators went with us.
The storage facility was nearly empty.
One unit contained a single metal case.
Inside were biological research records.
I read the first page.
My father's name.
Richard Bennett.
He had donated genetic material to a medical study decades ago.
I knew he had participated in research.
I didn't know why.
Victor read the next page.
His face changed.
“This is not a fertility study.”
“What is it?”
“Regenerative medicine.”
I frowned.
My father had developed a treatment protocol.
Stem-cell research.
Genetic therapy.
A method for repairing damaged organs.
The work had been abandoned after his death.
Or so I thought.
The files showed otherwise.
The research continued secretly.
A private company had purchased the intellectual property.
The company was connected to Evan's family.
I felt sick.
“They wanted my father's research.”
“Yes.”
“And my children?”
“Potential genetic compatibility.”
I looked at the data.
The three children carried different combinations of my father's and my mother's genetic markers.
They weren't just beneficiaries.
They were genetically valuable.
That was why Evan wanted them.
Not merely for the trust.
For the research.
I closed the file.
“This is monstrous.”
Victor nodded.
“Agreed.”
Then we found a video.
A doctor spoke into a camera.
“Patient Zero is viable.”
The camera turned.
A woman sat in a hospital bed.
Pregnant.
I felt sick.
She looked familiar.
Then the camera moved closer.
I recognized her.
Marissa.
But the video was dated two years before Lucas was born.
I stared.
“That can't be.”
Victor looked at the date.
“Someone recorded this before your divorce.”
Marissa had been pregnant then.
But not with Evan's child.
The file showed that she had undergone a medical procedure.
An embryo transfer.
I could barely breathe.
Victor looked at me.
“Maybe Lucas wasn't the first child.”
My head spun.
“What?”
He turned the page.
The name appeared:
Project B-7.
“What's B-7?”
“The seventh genetic trial.”
My father's research.
I stared at the fetal records.
Then saw the donor profile.
My father.
My mother.
And—
me.
I stopped breathing.
“How?”
Victor didn't answer.
The next file showed that my own cells had been stored during a surgical procedure years earlier.
Without my knowledge.
Evan had accessed them.
Marissa had been used as a surrogate.
The pregnancy had been part of a research program.
I felt sick.
“Lucas was an experiment?”
“Potentially.”
Victor looked at the data.
“Not only Lucas.”
The three children had been born with different combinations of the same genetic material.
Someone had been studying them.
Tracking them.
Testing them.
I looked at the children waiting at home.
This wasn't just a custody battle anymore.
It was a medical conspiracy.
We needed to protect them immediately.
Federal agents seized the research company.
Its executives were arrested.
The clinic was closed.
Marissa was questioned.
She finally told the truth.
Evan had promised her that the treatment would help her become a mother.
She had believed him.
She didn't know she was part of a trial.
I asked her:
“Why didn't you tell me?”
She cried.
“Because I was ashamed.”
I sat beside her.
“You were manipulated too.”
She looked at me.
“I helped him.”
“Yes.”
“I betrayed you.”
“Yes.”
“Can you ever forgive me?”
I thought about it.
“I don't know.”
She nodded.
“That is fair.”
Months passed.
The children grew.
Healthy.
Happy.
The research case continued.
Evan eventually pleaded guilty.
He accepted responsibility for his role.
But his father's company was dismantled.
The foundation remained independent.
My children were protected.
And I began rebuilding my life.
Not as the woman who couldn't have children.
Not as Evan's ex-wife.
As Dr. Claire Bennett.
Mother.
Survivor.
And finally—
my own person.
Then one afternoon, Lucas came running into my office.
“Mom!”
“What happened?”
He held up a drawing.
Three children.
A woman.
A man.
And another person.
“Who is that?”
He pointed.
“Daddy.”
I looked.
Evan was not in the drawing.
The man was someone else.
“Who is he?”
Lucas shrugged.
“He visits my dreams.”
My blood ran cold.
“What does he look like?”
Lucas described him.
Gray hair.
Blue eyes.
A scar on his jaw.
I recognized the face.
It was my father.
Richard Bennett.
The man who had died fourteen years ago.
I stared at the drawing.
Victor walked in.
I handed it to him.
His face went pale.
“Claire…”
“What?”
“There is no way.”
“What?”
He looked at the drawing.
“Your father died before Lucas was born.”
“I know.”
“Then why does your son know what he looked like?”
I stared at Lucas.
He smiled.
May you like
“I just know.”
And for the first time in months, I realized our story might have one final secret.
