Chapter 2: The Baby He Never Told Me About
I didn't confront Damon about the message.
Not immediately.
I had learned something important in the last twenty minutes.
The people lying to me knew more than I did.
And the moment they realized I was asking questions, they would start destroying whatever evidence remained.
So I did something I had never imagined doing.
I pretended nothing had happened.
That evening, Damon ordered Thai food.
He brought home my favorite coconut curry, remembered to ask for extra rice, and even placed a small vase of pink roses beside my plate.
The performance was almost impressive.
"How's our little girl?"" he asked, touching my stomach.
"She's fine.""
"Good. I've been thinking about names.""
I looked up.
"Have you?""
"Of course.""
He pulled out his phone.
"What do you think about Olivia?""
I stirred my food.
"It's pretty.""
"Or Charlotte?""
"That's pretty too.""
He smiled.
"You're not helping.""
"I didn't realize we were choosing tonight.""
He laughed.
For a moment, he looked like the man I'd married.
The man who had driven through a snowstorm to bring me soup when I had the flu.
The man who had cried when he found out I was pregnant.
The man who had promised that our daughter would never have to wonder whether her father loved her.
I hated that those memories still mattered.
After dinner, he cleared the plates.
I sat on the couch with a blanket over my legs.
His phone was on the coffee table.
It lit up.
A message preview appeared.
*Claire:* We need to talk before she finds the other file.
I didn't move.
The screen went dark.
Damon returned with two cups of tea.
"Chamomile," he said.
"The doctor said it's okay, right?""
I accepted the cup.
"Yes.""
He sat beside me.
His phone disappeared into his pocket.
"What happened at your appointment?"" he asked.
"The doctor said everything looked good.""
"Anything else?""
"She asked about my stress levels.""
He looked at me.
"And?""
"I told her I was fine.""
He nodded.
"Good. You need to avoid stress.""
I almost asked whether sleeping with my best friend was medically advisable.
Instead, I took a sip of tea.
"Damon?""
"Yeah?""
"Have we ever lost a baby?""
The cup in his hand stopped halfway to his mouth.
It lasted less than a second.
But I saw it.
"What?""
"Have we ever lost a baby?""
He slowly placed his cup on the table.
"Why would you ask that?""
I looked down at my hands.
"Someone sent me a strange message.""
His expression changed.
"What message?""
"Something about a baby you lost last year.""
He stared at me.
Then he laughed.
Not naturally.
Not even convincingly.
"That's ridiculous.""
"Is it?""
"Emily, people send crazy messages all the time.""
"Who?""
"How should I know?""
"Maybe someone who knows you.""
He leaned forward.
"Did you give anyone your number?""
I blinked.
"Excuse me?""
"Think about it. You've been posting pregnancy updates. People know you're expecting. Maybe someone is trying to upset you.""
I studied his face.
He was already building an explanation.
A stranger.
A prank.
Someone jealous.
Anyone except the people closest to us.
"Maybe," I said.
He relaxed slightly.
"Exactly.""
He took my hand.
"Promise me something.""
"What?""
"If anyone sends you anything strange, you tell me.""
I nodded.
"Of course.""
He kissed my knuckles.
I wanted to pull away.
Instead, I let him.
That night, Damon fell asleep before midnight.
I waited another forty minutes.
Then I quietly took his phone from the bedside table.
His passcode was our wedding anniversary.
He hadn't changed it in six years.
I opened his messages.
Claire's conversation was hidden under a contact named Martin Logistics.
The latest message read:
*Claire:* She saw the charm.
*Damon:* Did she see you?
*Claire:* I don't think so.
*Damon:* You need to be more careful.
*Claire:* I can't keep doing this.
*Damon:* We agreed.
*Claire:* You agreed. I never agreed to being hidden forever.
I scrolled upward.
There were hundreds of messages.
Some were ordinary.
Others were not.
*Claire:* She still thinks you're working late.
*Damon:* She trusts me.
*Claire:* That's because she loves you.
*Damon:* Don't start.
Then, three weeks earlier:
*Claire:* What happens when the baby arrives?
*Damon:* Nothing changes.
*Claire:* You promised me things would change.
*Damon:* Not now.
I took screenshots.
Then I searched the conversation for the word baby.
The first result made my stomach tighten.
*Claire:* I still have the hospital bracelet.
*Damon:* Get rid of it.
*Claire:* I can't.
*Damon:* Claire, please.
*Claire:* You told me we were going to be a family.
I sat motionless.
There was no mention of a miscarriage.
No explanation.
Just a series of messages about a hospital bracelet.
I scrolled further.
*Claire:* The doctor said the dates don't match.
*Damon:* Stop talking about this over text.
*Claire:* You said the same thing when I was pregnant.
*Damon:* We need to focus on the paperwork.
Paperwork.
I remembered the folder.
The property authorization.
I opened the camera roll.
The photographs I'd taken that afternoon were still there.
I enlarged the document with my name.
At the bottom was a small paragraph I'd barely noticed.
It referred to a financial power of attorney.
The document gave Damon permission to make certain financial decisions on my behalf.
But I had never signed it.
The signature was mine only in appearance.
The date was from nine months earlier.
I looked at Damon sleeping beside me.
His face was peaceful.
His breathing steady.
How many times had he kissed me after signing something with my name?
How many times had he told me not to worry about money while quietly moving it somewhere else?
I returned his phone to the exact position.
Then I went downstairs.
My laptop was in the kitchen.
I searched my email for bank statements.
Most of our accounts were joint.
But I had one savings account my grandmother had helped me establish before she died.
I'd never touched it.
The balance should have been around $86,000.
I logged in.
The balance displayed $14,250.
I stared at the screen.
I refreshed.
The number didn't change.
There were several transfers.
$8,000.
$12,500.
$15,000.
$18,250.
All sent to an account ending in 4419.
The last transfer was dated three days earlier.
I clicked the details.
The recipient name appeared.
*C. Bennett.*
Claire Bennett.
I sat back.
The woman I'd called my sister had been taking money from my inheritance.
And Damon had helped her.
My phone buzzed.
A message from Claire.
*Claire:* Are you awake?
I didn't answer.
Another message arrived.
*Claire:* Emily, please don't make this difficult.
I stared at the screen.
Then I typed:
*Emily:* What happened to your baby?
There was a long pause.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Then my phone rang.
Claire.
I answered without speaking.
"Emily?"" Her voice was soft.
Too soft.
"Yes.""
"Why are you asking me that?""
"Because someone told me Damon lost a baby last year.""
Silence.
Then a quiet sigh.
"Your husband shouldn't have involved you in this.""
I closed my eyes.
"Which baby?""
"Emily, you're pregnant. You don't need this stress.""
"Stop saying that.""
"Please listen.""
"No. You listen. Did you have a baby with my husband?""
She didn't answer.
I could hear traffic in the background.
A car door closing.
Then she said something that made my fingers tighten around the phone.
"It wasn't supposed to happen like this.""
My throat went dry.
"How was it supposed to happen?""
"Emily—"
"Did you have his baby?""
Another pause.
Then Claire whispered:
"She was born alive.""
I couldn't breathe.
"Where is she?""
Claire began crying.
"I can't tell you over the phone.""
"Where is she?""
"Please. I need to explain.""
I stood so quickly that my chair scraped against the kitchen floor.
"Claire, where is the baby?""
Before she could answer, I heard a man's voice in the background.
"Who are you talking to?""
Claire gasped.
The call ended.
I stared at the screen.
Then I opened the messages again.
There was a new text.
*Claire:* Don't tell Damon we spoke.
A second message followed.
*Claire:* He doesn't know I kept the hospital records.
I typed back immediately.
*Emily:* Why would you keep them?
Her response arrived almost instantly.
*Claire:* Because the baby wasn't the only thing he made me sign.
I felt the room tilt.
"What else did you sign?"" I whispered.
No answer.
Then another notification appeared.
This time, it was an email.
The sender was the hospital where I had delivered my routine pregnancy bloodwork three weeks earlier.
The subject line read:
*Important: Verification Required for Your Patient Records.*
I opened it.
There was an attachment.
A medical authorization form.
It listed Damon as the person permitted to access my records.
That wasn't unusual.
We had discussed it.
But beneath his name was another authorized contact.
*Claire Bennett.*
I frowned.
I had never given Claire permission to access my medical records.
I clicked the document.
At the bottom was a scanned signature.
My signature.
And a date from two years earlier.
I enlarged it.
The signature was almost perfect.
Almost.
Except for one detail.
My grandmother had taught me to write my capital E with a small loop at the bottom.
This signature didn't have one.
I saved the document.
Then I searched my email for Claire's name.
A message appeared from nine months earlier.
It was a forwarded email from a private fertility clinic.
The subject line read:
*Re: Embryo Transfer — Final Authorization.*
I opened it.
The email contained three attachments.
The first was a payment receipt.
The second was a treatment schedule.
The third was a consent form.
My name was printed at the top.
Damon's name appeared beside mine.
And Claire's name appeared under a section marked:
*Gestational Carrier.*
I stared at the screen.
For several seconds, I couldn't understand the words.
Gestational carrier.
Embryo transfer.
Consent.
I opened the treatment schedule.
There was a date.
A date when Damon had told me he was traveling to Chicago for a business conference.
I remembered that week.
I'd called him from home because I'd been feeling sick.
He'd told me he was exhausted and couldn't talk.
Now I understood why.
But I still couldn't understand one thing.
Why was my name on a fertility consent form?
I'd never undergone fertility treatment.
I'd never donated eggs.
I'd never signed anything.
And yet the document claimed that I had authorized the use of my genetic material.
I looked at the date.
Then at Claire's name.
Then at the hospital message.
My phone began ringing again.
Damon.
I watched it vibrate.
One ring.
Two.
Three.
I answered.
"Where are you?"" he demanded.
"Home.""
"Why aren't you upstairs?""
"I'm looking at something.""
"What?""
I looked at the consent form.
"Something you signed for me.""
There was a pause.
Then his voice became very quiet.
"Emily, close the laptop.""
I went cold.
"How do you know I'm on the laptop?""
He didn't answer.
Instead, I heard his footsteps on the stairs.
May you like
And then he said:
"Whatever you found, don't call Claire.""
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