Chapter 2 - THE EMBRYOS THAT WERE MISSING
I drove to North Harbor Fertility instead of home.
I do not remember most of the trip.
Only the words.
Your stored embryos.
Accessed.
Without authorization.
Preston and I had created six embryos during IVF eighteen months earlier.
One transfer failed.
Five remained frozen.
At least, that was what I believed.
Dr. Rachel Bennett met me after hours.
She looked exhausted.
“Mrs. Ashford—”
“Camille.”
She nodded.
“Camille.”
She closed the office door.
“How many embryos are left?”
Her expression answered before she spoke.
“Two.”
I stared.
“No.”
“We’re investigating.”
“There were five.”
“Yes.”
“Where are the other three?”
“We don’t know yet.”
I stood.
“Then call the police.”
“We may.”
“May?”
“Our legal team—”
“Three embryos are missing.”
My voice rose.
“They contain my genetic material.”
“I know.”
“And Preston’s.”
“Yes.”
Then something hit me.
Three.
Sloane was pregnant with triplets.
Three boys.
My body went cold.
“When were they removed?”
Dr. Bennett hesitated.
“Approximately eight months ago.”
I sat down.
London.
The affair.
Sloane’s pregnancy.
No.
Impossible.
“Were they transferred?”
“We don’t have a legitimate transfer record.”
“Could someone have moved them to another clinic?”
“Yes.”
“Who had access?”
“We’re auditing.”
“Did Preston?”
“He could authorize certain storage decisions jointly with you, but not unilateral embryo transfer under your consent agreement.”
“Did he access the portal?”
She looked uncomfortable.
“There was a login using his credentials.”
My stomach turned.
“When?”
“Two days before the embryos disappeared.”
I felt physically sick.
Preston had just admitted sleeping with Sloane.
Had he also given her our embryos?
But that made no sense.
If Sloane carried my embryos, those triplets might be genetically mine.
I nearly laughed from shock.
Dr. Bennett saw my face.
“We do not know that happened.”
“But it could have.”
“We need records.”
“Do you have embryo identifiers?”
“Yes.”
Every embryo had laboratory tracking numbers and biopsy records from genetic screening.
I had forgotten.
We tested them because of a hereditary condition in Preston’s family.
Chromosomal screening also recorded sex.
My heart started pounding.
“How many of our frozen embryos were male?”
Dr. Bennett stopped.
She knew where I was going.
“Three.”
The room disappeared.
Three male embryos.
Three missing embryos.
Sloane pregnant with three boys.
My hands began trembling.
“No.”
“Camille, please don’t assume—”
“How many female embryos?”
“Two.”
The ones still in storage.
I covered my mouth.
My unborn child had been conceived naturally.
A surprise after infertility treatment.
But somewhere, three embryos that might have been mine could be growing inside the woman Preston left me for.
Or it could be coincidence.
I needed facts.
“What do we do?”
“Preserve records. Obtain court orders if necessary. Identify whether an unauthorized transfer occurred.”
“And Sloane?”
“If she is carrying embryos created from your eggs, this becomes extremely complicated.”
Understatement of the century.
My phone rang.
Preston.
I stared.
Did he know?
Had he called because Gordon told him I tore the check?
Or because the clinic warned him?
I answered.
“What?”
“Where are you?”
“Why?”
“You didn’t go home.”
“My location stopped being your concern when you signed.”
He exhaled.
“Camille, I’m trying to make sure you’re okay.”
I almost laughed.
Then I asked:
“Did you access North Harbor eight months ago?”
Silence.
My heartbeat changed.
“Preston.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The embryo portal.”
Another pause.
“I logged in.”
“Why?”
“My father asked me about storage fees.”
My blood ran cold.
“Your father?”
“Yes.”
“Why would Gordon care about our embryos?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you remove any?”
“No.”
“Did you authorize anything?”
“No.”
He sounded genuinely confused.
Maybe.
Then I asked:
“Does Sloane know we used IVF?”
“Yes.”
Of course.
His assistant knew.
“How?”
“She managed my calendar.”
I closed my eyes.
Every appointment.
Every clinic.
Every injection cycle.
She knew everything.
Then Dr. Bennett’s assistant knocked and entered with a printout.
Her face pale.
“We found the courier record.”
Dr. Bennett took it.
Read.
Then looked at me.
“What?”
“The three embryos were released to a reproductive transport company.”
“Destination?”
“Another clinic.”
“Which one?”
“Mercer Reproductive Institute.”
Mercer.
Sloane Mercer.
Same surname.
My pulse thundered.
“Is that her family’s clinic?”
Dr. Bennett shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
I searched.
The institute was founded by Dr. Howard Mercer.
Sloane’s father.
May you like
And suddenly the twelve-million-dollar divorce looked less like a family cleaning up an affair.
It looked like someone was trying to separate me from three children before they were even born.
