Chapter 5 - JANE
I met Baby Jane in a family-services office in Baltimore.
She had Preston’s eyes.
That was the first thing I saw.
Not Ashford money.
Not scandal.
Not genetics.
Just eyes I had once loved looking back at me from a seven-month-old child who did not know why adults kept passing papers around her.
Naomi had warned me.
“You are not obligated to become involved.”
“I know.”
“Being compassionate does not require adopting another person’s legal crisis.”
“I know.”
“Camille.”
“I know.”
Then Jane grabbed my finger.
That was inconvenient.
The caseworker explained.
The gestational carrier, Melissa Grant, had agreed to carry an embryo for intended parents represented through a family trust.
But paperwork listed a corporate entity as contracting party.
No legally recognized intended mother appeared clearly.
Preston’s genetic connection was established privately but not adjudicated.
Gordon’s lawyers pushed to place Jane into a trust-controlled guardianship.
Melissa refused.
Then she disappeared from the process after receiving threats.
Not physical threats.
Financial.
Lawsuits.
Confidentiality demands.
She contacted Emily.
Emily contacted me.
I asked:
“Where is Preston?”
The caseworker could not discuss him.
Naomi later learned Gordon’s team had never told Preston the full truth.
At least according to available correspondence.
Again, everyone made decisions around him.
But Preston was an adult.
His ignorance could not always be excused as manipulation.
I chose not to contact him yet.
Instead, I petitioned only for temporary kinship-like placement as a family-connected caregiver while the court sorted parentage.
My legal standing was strange.
Technically still married when Jane was conceived?
Possibly.
Divorce final now.
Former spouse of genetic father.
No biological relation.
But the caseworker cared about stability.
I had a home.
Income.
No criminal history.
And soon, three infants of my own.
“Are you sure?” Naomi asked.
“No.”
Good enough.
Jane came home with me temporarily.
The first night, she screamed for two hours.
I cried with her.
Then she fell asleep against my chest while my own babies kicked inside me.
Four months later, I delivered triplets.
Alexander.
Rose.
Claire Jr. almost happened until I regained sanity.
The second girl became Grace.
Three premature but healthy babies.
Jane was eleven months old.
My house became chaos.
Bottles.
Diapers.
Sleep schedules.
Four cribs.
One nanny became two.
My consulting business mostly ran through video calls.
No twelve-million-dollar check.
No Ashford money.
I had my savings.
My company.
And help I hired myself.
Then Preston found me.
Not physically.
Through court notices.
Jane’s parentage case finally required his participation.
He called.
I answered.
His first words:
“You have my daughter?”
I looked at Jane sleeping beside the triplets.
“Apparently.”
“Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
I laughed.
“That seems to be the Ashford family motto.”
“Camille.”
“Did you know she existed?”
“No.”
I listened carefully.
He sounded destroyed.
“Did you know about the triplet embryos?”
“No.”
“You slept with Sloane.”
“Yes.”
“You let your father buy me out.”
His voice broke.
“Yes.”
“Those are the things you did know.”
Silence.
Good.
He needed the distinction.
Then he asked:
“Can I see Jane?”
I thought about it.
“Yes.”
Not because he deserved access to me.
Because Jane deserved truth.
He arrived alone.
No Gordon.
No Lenora.
No Sloane.
He walked into my living room.
Saw Jane first.
Then the three bassinets.
Stopped.
His face went completely white.
“Camille.”
I said nothing.
He counted.
One.
Two.
Three.
Then looked at me.
“They’re…”
I nodded.
“Yours.”
His hand went to his mouth.
“All three?”
“Yes.”
He sat down.
I had imagined this moment during pregnancy.
Rage.
Vindication.
Maybe satisfaction.
Instead I felt tired.
Preston started crying.
Not elegant billionaire tears.
Broken ones.
“You were pregnant.”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“In the library.”
His eyes closed.
“You signed while pregnant.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
I looked at him.
“Because you let me sign.”
That answer destroyed him.
Then Jane woke.
He turned.
She stared at him.
He slowly crouched.
“Hi.”
Jane touched his face.
Preston cried harder.
Then he whispered:
“I have four children.”
I answered:
“No.”
He looked at me.
“You have four biological children.”
I gestured around the room.
May you like
“But right now, I have four children.”
And if he wanted a place in any of their lives, genetics would not be enough.
