Chapter 8 - THE EMBRYOS PATRICIA THOUGHT BELONGED TO HER FAMILY
The embryos had never belonged to Patricia.
That sounds obvious.
Apparently it required lawyers.
Ryan and I had created four embryos during fertility treatment.
Two transfers failed.
Two remained frozen when our marriage collapsed.
Our divorce agreement specified that neither embryo could be used without written consent from both genetic parents.
If we could not agree, they would remain stored until a later legal decision.
I had not thought about them after discovering I was pregnant naturally.
Grace existed because, after years of treatments, schedules, injections, and grief, my body did something no doctor predicted.
The irony would have amused my grandmother.
Patricia had requested the embryo records six weeks before our divorce finalized.
She asked the clinic whether Ryan’s consent alone could authorize future use.
The clinic said no.
She asked whether embryos could be transferred to a gestational carrier.
Only with both genetic parents’ consent.
She asked whether Mia’s death or incapacity changed control.
Sarah read that question three times.
My skin went cold.
“Why?”
Ryan sat across from us.
He looked horrified.
“I never asked her to.”
“Did you ever discuss a surrogate?”
“Years ago.”
“With Patricia?”
“She suggested it after the second miscarriage.”
I remembered.
Patricia had said:
Some families use alternatives when the wife cannot perform the biological role.
I cried in a restaurant bathroom for twenty minutes.
Ryan told me she had poor phrasing.
Poor phrasing.
I looked at him.
“You defended her.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because confronting her was exhausting.”
There.
A small sentence explaining seven years.
He chose my pain because it cost him less than confronting Patricia.
Ryan continued:
“I am sorry.”
“I know.”
Allowed.
We instructed the clinic to place additional legal restrictions on the embryos.
No release.
No testing.
No information to third parties.
Sarah notified the court.
Patricia’s attorneys claimed she was merely gathering estate-planning information.
Maybe.
But combined with her other behavior, it showed a pattern.
A child in our family was never simply a child to Patricia.
It was succession.
Legacy.
Brooks.
Blood.
Grace became four months old while investigations continued.
She smiled now.
Real smiles.
Ryan nearly cried every time.
He had begun taking her alone for Saturday afternoons.
At first I spent those hours pacing.
Then sleeping.
Then eventually doing things I had forgotten I liked.
Coffee with Emily.
Walking by the lake.
Reading something unrelated to lawsuits.
My life slowly expanded beyond defense.
One afternoon, Sarah asked:
“What are you doing with the riverfront land?”
“Nothing yet.”
“You have developers calling.”
“I know.”
“Brooks Urban submitted another proposal.”
I stared.
“Ryan?”
“No.”
Independent restructuring board.
Ryan remained on leave.
Interesting.
The new proposal included:
Public riverwalk.
Mixed-income apartments.
Daycare center.
Small-business retail.
Workforce housing.
Market-rate lease to Carter Trust.
No disguised options.
No fake signatures.
I read it.
Good project.
Then noticed the architect.
Luke Bennett.
I knew him.
Not personally.
Chicago architect.
Forty.
Widower.
Designed public libraries and mixed-income housing.
Sarah smiled.
“Do not.”
“What?”
“You had a face.”
Everyone had learned.
“I was reading his résumé.”
“Of course.”
I ignored her.
The Carter Trust invited three firms to present.
Luke came to mine.
He was tall.
Brown hair.
No billionaire confidence.
He began by saying:
“I think the current proposal is too dense.”
I liked him immediately.
Most people told landowners exactly what they thought would secure approval.
Luke argued with me for forty minutes.
“The river belongs visually to the city.”
“The property belongs legally to my trust.”
“Yes.”
“So?”
“So those can both be true.”
Interesting.
We revised.
Not romance.
Work.
Good.
Meanwhile, Lauren gave birth to a boy.
Owen Pierce.
Ryan was notified because of the paternity dispute.
He attended no delivery.
Not his right without invitation.
After birth, court-ordered testing proceeded.
Three days later, Ryan called me.
His voice sounded strange.
“He is not mine.”
I closed my eyes.
“Marcus?”
“Yes.”
DNA confirmed Marcus Shaw.
Lauren’s long-term lover.
Ryan laughed once.
“I canceled our wedding because I learned she lied about business.”
A pause.
“Turns out the baby was never mine either.”
I looked at Grace.
“I’m sorry.”
Ryan went quiet.
“Are you?”
“For the child you thought you were having.”
That mattered.
“Yes.”
He whispered:
“Thank you.”
Lauren’s son did not deserve to become a punchline in our story.
Marcus’s wife eventually divorced him.
He acknowledged paternity.
Lauren’s criminal case continued.
She remained out on bail pending trial.
Her life was collapsing.
I did not celebrate.
Then she asked to speak with me.
My answer:
No.
She asked again through attorneys.
No.
Third time she sent a letter.
Sarah read it first.
“It contains evidence.”
I sighed.
“Fine.”
Lauren wrote that Patricia had recruited her before she ever applied to Brooks Urban.
That changed everything.
Patricia told Grant Vale she needed someone inside Ryan’s office who understood both Westbridge and “the Mia problem.”
Lauren agreed because Grant promised her a future senior role at Westbridge.
She expected to gather information.
Then she and Ryan became close.
Then involved.
Lauren wrote:
I told myself Mia was already losing him.
I made that easier to believe because I wanted what he represented.
Not love?
Maybe some.
But ambition first.
Then the inheritance.
Lauren discovered the Carter Riverfront Trust and told Grant.
Westbridge realized the land could transform the acquisition.
Patricia said Mia would never willingly sign while marriage deteriorated.
Lauren created the forged documentation with help from Marcus.
Ryan authorized use of “family reserves” without confirming which account.
Everyone used everyone.
Then Lauren wrote something I did not expect.
Patricia knew Mia might be pregnant before the divorce became final.
I stopped.
How?
Lauren had seen a pharmacy charge for prenatal vitamins and a new lab order.
She asked Patricia.
Patricia said:
Even if she is, Ryan cannot know until the divorce is complete.
My hands began shaking.
There.
Not uncertainty.
Intent.
Patricia suspected.
And chose silence.
Lauren continued:
I asked why.
Patricia said a pregnancy would complicate the separation and weaken Ryan during Westbridge negotiations.
My daughter’s existence had been a business complication.
I called Ryan.
He answered.
“What?”
“Lauren wrote me.”
Silence.
“What did she say?”
“Your mother knew I might be pregnant.”
Ryan stopped breathing.
I read the line.
He said nothing for a long time.
Then:
“I need to go.”
“Ryan.”
“No.”
His voice broke.
“I need to not call her while I feel like this.”
I understood.
Good choice.
Later he texted:
I called my therapist instead.
I stared at the message.
Then smiled.
Maybe people could change.
Not because consequences hurt enough.
Because eventually they learned pain did not need another victim.
Patricia was charged two weeks later with conspiracy to commit wire fraud, unauthorized computer access, and obstruction related to the forged property documents.
The media called it the fall of the Brooks family.
I hated that phrase.
Families are not companies.
Ryan still existed.
Grace.
Me, once.
The family had not fallen.
May you like
A system had.
There was a difference.
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