Chapter 2 - THE SEVENTEENTH CALL
Carter called again eleven minutes after I ended our first conversation.
I watched his name light up my phone while my youngest daughter, Emma, slept against my chest.
Beyond the terrace railing, Sydney Harbor glowed beneath a warm afternoon sun. Ferries moved across the water. Somewhere below, people laughed in a café.
Inside my apartment, four bassinets stood in a careful row.
Four daughters.
Four tiny lives who had entered the world after one of the most medically complicated pregnancies my doctors had ever managed.
Grace.
Emma.
Lily.
Sophie.
I had named them before I knew whether all four would survive delivery.
My obstetric team had warned me from the beginning that a quadruplet pregnancy could become dangerous without warning.
I had spent months measuring hope in weeks.
Twenty-four.
Twenty-eight.
Thirty.
Thirty-two.
Every extra day inside me had felt like a victory.
Carter had not been there for any of it.
He had not seen the hospital room where I learned Grace’s growth had slowed.
He had not watched me cry after a specialist explained the possibility of premature delivery.
He had not sat beside my bed during the final six weeks when my doctors admitted me for monitoring.
He had not heard four heartbeats racing through the speakers.
And he had not stood outside the operating theater when all four girls entered the world within six minutes of one another.
He had made his choice months earlier.
Now his wedding had collapsed, and suddenly he wanted to call.
My phone stopped ringing.
Then started again.
Eighteen calls.
I put it facedown.
From the sliding door behind me came the quiet voice of Margaret Ellis.
“You should turn it off.”
Margaret was sixty-three, silver-haired, and possessed the terrifying calm of a woman who had spent thirty years handling rich people’s worst legal disasters.
She was the Australian attorney appointed by the late Dr. Julian Mercer’s estate to oversee the girls’ trust.
She had arrived at my apartment two hours earlier after hearing about the disaster at Carter’s wedding.
I looked at the phone.
“What if something happened?”
“To Carter?”
“Yes.”
Margaret lifted one eyebrow.
“Would answering change it?”
I smiled faintly.
“No.”
“Then turn it off.”
I did.
The silence felt wonderful.
Margaret sat across from me.
“The courier confirmed delivery at nine twenty-seven this morning, Connecticut time.”
“I know.”
“Your handwritten message was included exactly as requested.”
“Good.”
“You realize the Vance family is already contacting lawyers.”
“I assumed.”
“They want to challenge the validity of the Mercer trust.”
My hand tightened around Emma.
“On what grounds?”
“None that are especially strong.”
Margaret opened a folder.
“But people with money rarely require strong grounds to begin litigation. They require money and a belief that inconvenience will make the other person surrender.”
That sounded exactly like Miriam.
“What are they claiming?”
“That the girls’ biological relationship to Julian Mercer was created through medical error rather than intentional conception, and therefore the estate clause referring to surviving biological children should not apply.”
My stomach tightened.
“But the trust says biological descendants.”
“Yes.”
“Not intentionally conceived descendants.”
“Correct.”
“Then why are we discussing this?”
“Because Miriam Vance apparently believes every document contains a weakness if she stares long enough.”
I almost laughed.
I understood that instinct.
It was how I found the paternity clause in the divorce settlement.
Margaret continued.
“Julian Mercer and his wife, Anna, created the trust after fertility treatment in Australia. They had frozen material stored for future use.”
My expression softened.
I had learned pieces of their story gradually.
Julian Mercer was a reproductive-medicine researcher.
Anna was an architect.
They had struggled with infertility too.
Their stored genetic material had been held at the same international storage company used by my Connecticut clinic.
A labeling and transfer catastrophe had connected our lives without any of us knowing.
“They died before having children,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Car accident.”
“Outside Melbourne.”
I looked toward the bassinets.
Four daughters who would someday ask questions I did not yet know how to answer.
Margaret continued.
“The trust was unusually broad. Julian was cautious. He included any posthumously identified biological children.”
“Why?”
“He had donated samples to research and feared future legal ambiguity.”
Irony.
Sometimes the clauses people wrote for impossible possibilities became the only things that mattered.
“What does Carter want?”
Margaret closed the trust file.
“You should ask Carter.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Good.”
I looked at her.
“Good?”
“The mistake women make after escaping controlling families is believing they still owe those families access simply because the family has questions.”
That sentence landed.
I shifted Emma carefully.
She made a small sound and settled again.
“What should I do?”
“Legally?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing today.”
That sounded too simple.
“Nothing?”
“Feed your children.”
I laughed.
Margaret continued.
“Sleep if one of them allows it. Let your attorneys work.”
“And the press?”
“Your name is starting to circulate.”
My stomach turned.
“How?”
“The courier entered the Vance estate on the morning of a major society wedding. Staff talk.”
Of course.
“What are they saying?”
“That Carter’s former wife secretly had four children after accepting an eighty-million-dollar divorce.”
“I didn’t accept it.”
“I know.”
“The divorce settlement was different.”
“I know.”
The actual divorce had been negotiated through independent attorneys.
I had kept the Connecticut house because it was mine.
I had received a division of marital assets.
Nothing resembling Miriam’s original purchase price.
I had also retained every claim connected to the clinic scandal.
Margaret said:
“You need a public statement.”
“I don’t want one.”
“You may need one anyway.”
I looked at her.
“I don’t want my daughters turned into entertainment.”
“Then the statement should say exactly that.”
Before I could respond, my apartment intercom rang.
My pulse jumped.
Margaret looked toward the door.
“Expecting someone?”
“No.”
Security downstairs called.
“There is a Mr. Carter Vance in the lobby.”
I stopped breathing.
Margaret stared.
“He flew here?”
I looked at the clock.
Impossible.
Unless—
“No.”
Then I remembered the timeline.
The wedding had been scheduled for early morning in Connecticut.
Private aviation.
Time difference.
Carter had apparently gotten on a plane almost immediately after the DNA report arrived.
The security guard continued.
“He says he needs to speak with you.”
I looked at Emma.
Then toward the other three bassinets.
“No.”
Margaret smiled slightly.
Security asked:
“Should we ask him to leave?”
“Yes.”
I hung up.
Three minutes later, another call came.
Security again.
“He says he will wait outside.”
“Then he can wait.”
Margaret looked impressed.
“You’ve changed.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
I looked down at my daughter.
“I remembered.”
Forty minutes passed.
Carter remained downstairs.
An hour.
Two.
At sunset, Grace woke crying.
Then Lily.
Then Sophie.
Within thirty seconds my apartment turned into organized disaster.
Margaret took one baby.
My postpartum nurse, Nina, took another.
I held two badly.
That was when the intercom rang again.
Not security.
Reception.
“There is another woman downstairs.”
My body tightened.
“Who?”
“Natalie Price.”
I stood.
Margaret’s expression changed.
“The mistress?”
“The former bride.”
Natalie had apparently not disappeared far.
Reception continued.
“She has two infants with her.”
The twins.
The boys Carter believed were his.
My first instinct was no.
Then reception added:
“She says she needs help.”
Something in the words stopped me.
Not Carter.
Not forgiveness.
Help.
I looked at Margaret.
“What would you do?”
“Personally?”
“Yes.”
“Send her away.”
I almost smiled.
“Legally?”
“Listen before making decisions.”
Fair.
I asked reception:
“Is Carter still downstairs?”
“Yes.”
“Keep them separate.”
Margaret frowned.
“What are you thinking?”
“I don’t know.”
That was true.
The woman who slept with my husband for three years was downstairs holding two babies whose biological father was apparently neither Carter nor anyone she wanted publicly identified.
Eight months earlier, she had sat in my house while Miriam offered eighty million dollars to erase me.
Today, her wedding had collapsed.
And somehow she had flown across the world after me.
I handed Emma to Nina.
“Bring Natalie upstairs.”
Margaret stared.
“You are either very brave or very tired.”
“Mostly tired.”
Five minutes later the elevator opened.
Natalie stepped out.
No bridal gown.
No makeup.
Her blonde hair was pulled into a loose ponytail.
She wore black leggings, a gray sweatshirt, and carried one infant car seat in each hand.
For the first time since I had known her, she looked exactly her age.
Thirty.
Terrified.
Human.
She saw me.
Then the four bassinets.
Her face crumpled.
“Oh, God.”
I did not move.
Natalie set the carriers down carefully.
The twins were awake.
Two beautiful boys.
No idea what adults had done around them.
Natalie whispered:
“I’m sorry.”
I stared.
Eight months earlier, those words would have meant nothing.
Today, they still did not mean enough.
“What do you want?”
Her eyes filled.
“Miriam took my passports.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“She took mine and the boys’ documents before the wedding.”
“Why?”
“Because she knew I might run.”
The room went cold.
Natalie continued.
“She knew they weren’t Carter’s.”
“I know.”
“She knew before she came to your house.”
“I know that too.”
Natalie stared.
“How?”
“The lab report.”
Her face collapsed further.
“She made me lie.”
I almost laughed.
“No.”
Natalie flinched.
“She pressured you maybe.”
“Yes.”
“She threatened you maybe.”
“Yes.”
“She manipulated you maybe.”
Natalie began crying.
“But you slept with my husband for three years.”
Silence.
“You came into my house seven months pregnant.”
“Yes.”
“You watched his mother tell me to leave.”
“Yes.”
“You stayed quiet while she blamed my body.”
Natalie covered her mouth.
“Yes.”
I looked at the two babies.
Then back at her.
“So do not begin by telling me Miriam made you do everything.”
Natalie nodded.
Tears rolled down her face.
“You’re right.”
Good.
That was the first honest thing between us.
I crossed my arms.
“Why are you here?”
She looked toward the elevator.
Then whispered:
“Because Miriam isn’t done.”
My stomach tightened.
“With what?”
Natalie looked toward my four daughters.
“She wants Carter to challenge their trust.”
Margaret stepped closer.
“We know.”
Natalie shook her head.
“No.”
Her face turned pale.
“You don’t understand.”
She reached into the diaper bag.
Pulled out a small black flash drive.
“Miriam knew about the clinic error before she offered you the money.”
I stared.
Natalie’s voice broke.
“She knew you might still be pregnant.”
The room went silent.
And suddenly page fourteen of the divorce agreement came back to me.
Embryos.
Stored reproductive material.
Disputed pregnancies.
Children conceived during the marriage.
The clause Miriam claimed was standard.
It had never been standard.
It had been insurance.
Not against what she knew.
May you like
Against what she feared.
Miriam Vance had offered me eighty million dollars because she knew there was a chance I was carrying children she intended to erase from the family story.
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