Chapter 3 - THE TRIPLETS WHO MIGHT HAVE BEEN MINE
I did not tell Preston I was pregnant.
Not that night.
Not the next morning.
I retained an attorney instead.
Her name was Naomi Ellis.
Family law.
Reproductive law.
And, as she put it, “unfortunately familiar with rich families who think biology is another asset class.”
She did not let me contact Sloane.
Good advice.
Within forty-eight hours, Naomi secured preservation letters to North Harbor, Mercer Reproductive Institute, the embryo courier, and both Ashford attorneys.
Then she asked me:
“Do you want to challenge the divorce immediately?”
“No.”
She looked surprised.
“Why?”
“Because if the triplets are genetically mine, I need to understand that first.”
“And your pregnancy?”
I had told her.
Only her.
Seven weeks.
“I don’t want the Ashfords knowing.”
“That may become difficult.”
“I know.”
“Why keep it secret?”
I thought about Preston sitting beside Sloane.
About Gordon’s check.
About Lenora’s glowing face when she heard “three boys.”
“I don’t trust them not to treat this baby like another family asset.”
Naomi nodded.
“Fair.”
Three days later, we learned something disturbing.
Mercer Reproductive Institute denied receiving any embryos under my name.
The courier records said otherwise.
Transfer package:
Three embryos.
Source patients:
C.H. / P.A.
Destination patient:
S.M.
My initials.
Preston’s.
Sloane’s.
There it was.
Not proof of transfer.
Proof enough to terrify me.
Then the receiving clinic produced a consent form.
My signature.
Forged.
I knew instantly.
The C in Camille was wrong.
Too rounded.
But someone had copied my handwriting well enough to fool administrative review.
Preston’s signature was real.
Or looked real.
Naomi asked:
“Did he know?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then we find out.”
Sloane’s pregnancy records remained protected.
As they should.
But the clinic voluntarily opened an internal investigation because embryo provenance was now disputed.
Three weeks later, Sloane gave birth prematurely.
Three boys.
All survived.
I learned from a newspaper article.
“ASHFORD HEIRS ARRIVE EARLY.”
Heirs.
Not babies.
Heirs.
Photos showed Preston outside the hospital beside Gordon.
No Camille.
No mention of me.
I vomited after reading it.
Not from pregnancy.
From grief.
Then Preston called.
I did not answer.
He left voicemail.
“Camille, I don’t know what you think happened with the embryos. I swear I didn’t authorize a transfer.”
I replayed it twice.
Then another voicemail.
“My father says the clinic made an error.”
Of course he did.
Another.
“Sloane says her pregnancy came from treatment with donor embryos.”
Donor embryos.
That could explain triplets.
Or hide everything.
Naomi advised patience.
A court could eventually determine parentage if evidence warranted.
But reproductive cases were messy.
Slow.
Emotionally brutal.
Meanwhile, my pregnancy continued.
At twelve weeks, I heard the heartbeat.
One baby.
Then the ultrasound technician went quiet.
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
She smiled.
“Actually…”
She turned the screen.
“Two.”
Twins.
I started laughing and crying at the same time.
Two babies.
One boy.
One girl.
I thought that was the surprise.
It wasn’t.
At sixteen weeks, another specialist found something unusual.
A third fetal sac had been missed earlier.
A vanishing twin?
No.
A third baby developing behind the others.
Triplets.
I stared at the monitor.
Three.
Two girls.
One boy.
Naomi laughed when I told her.
“Apparently everyone in this story is having triplets.”
I laughed too.
Then stopped.
Because a month later, a woman called me.
Her name was Emily Mercer.
Sloane’s older sister.
She said:
“You don’t know me.”
“No.”
“But I know what my father did.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“What did he do?”
Emily whispered:
“He transferred your embryos into Sloane.”
My entire body went cold.
“Why?”
A pause.
May you like
Then:
“Because Gordon Ashford paid him.”
