Chapter 4 - THE BROTHER WHO DIED TWICEI called the number.
Disconnected.
Malcolm immediately handed the phone to my cybersecurity team.
Clara watched me from the medical bed.
“You believe it’s him?”
“No.”
It came too quickly.
She noticed.
“So you do.”
I walked toward the windows.
Chicago stretched below us, glittering and indifferent.
Six years.
Six years of standing beside an empty grave.
Six years of raising Jonathan’s son.
Six years of believing my brother had died believing I hated him.
Now someone wanted me to believe he had been alive the entire time.
Hope was dangerous.
I had built my life around facts because facts did not abandon you.
Clara’s voice softened.
“Ethan.”
“I said no.”
“You’re shaking.”
I looked at my hands.
She was right.
I hated that.
Then the penthouse alarms activated.
Malcolm touched his earpiece.
“Security breach.”
“Where?”
He looked toward me.
“Garage.”
Every screen in the room went black.
Then Caleb’s face appeared.
Clara recoiled.
He was handsome in the effortless Mercer way: dark hair, expensive suit, warm brown eyes that made strangers trust him.
I had loved that face since he was a child.
Now I saw what Clara saw.
A mask.
“Uncle Ethan.”
His voice came through every speaker.
“I’m disappointed.”
“Come upstairs and tell me.”
Caleb smiled.
“I’m not stupid.”
“You assaulted a pregnant woman.”
His smile disappeared.
“I protected my family.”
“From what?”
“Her.”
Clara flinched.
Caleb saw it through whatever camera he had compromised.
“There she is.”
I moved between Clara and the nearest camera.
“You touch her again, and family won’t save you.”
Caleb laughed softly.
“You still don’t understand.”
“Explain it.”
“Those babies are not your miracle, Uncle.”
The words struck harder than I expected.
Clara whispered, “Don’t listen.”
Caleb continued.
“She came to me eight months ago. Poor little Clara. Desperate to save Mommy.”
“That’s not what happened.”
“She begged me for help.”
“You threatened me.”
“Perspective.”
I wanted to break the screen.
Instead I asked, “Are the babies yours?”
Caleb smiled.
“No.”
Clara closed her eyes.
Relief hit me so violently I hated myself for feeling it.
Then Caleb said, “But they aren’t yours either.”
Silence.
“What does that mean?”
“Ask Clara where she worked before she became a paralegal.”
I turned.
Clara looked confused.
“The fertility clinic?”
Diane made a sound.
“What clinic?”
“Vale Reproductive Center.”
The room froze.
Clara stared at her mother.
“You know it?”
Diane looked terrified.
“Harold Vale’s daughter owns it.”
Caleb applauded slowly through the speakers.
“Finally.”
Clara shook her head.
“I worked reception. Six months. That’s all.”
“Did you?” Caleb asked.
Her face changed.
Memory.
Fear.
“I donated eggs.”
My stomach dropped.
Clara looked at me.
“Once. I needed money for Mom’s appeal.”
Caleb leaned toward his camera.
“And somebody made a very expensive mistake.”
“What mistake?” I demanded.
“Ask Dr. Vale.”
“Harold Vale is dead.”
Caleb smiled.
“I didn’t say Harold.”
The screens went black.
We found the first answer on Clara’s medical records.
Reyes requested her prenatal files.
Someone had altered them.
Her conception date had been manually changed.
Not by days.
By months.
Clara wasn’t twenty-nine weeks pregnant.
She was approximately fifteen.
Twins had made her appear farther along, and the clinic had falsified the measurements supplied to her.
But even fifteen weeks created a problem.
Our night together had been thirteen weeks earlier.
Two weeks difference.
Close enough for uncertainty.
Far enough for doubt.
Reyes repeated the ultrasound using updated fetal measurements.
Then frowned.
“That’s strange.”
“What?”
“The babies aren’t measuring identically.”
“They’re twins,” Clara said.
“Fraternal twins can differ, but…”
He checked again.
“Twin A appears approximately fifteen weeks and four days.”
“And Twin B?”
“Thirteen weeks and five days.”
Nobody spoke.
“That’s impossible,” I said.
Reyes looked stunned.
“Usually.”
Diane whispered, “Superfetation.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“A second conception during an existing pregnancy. Extremely rare.”
Reyes nodded slowly.
“Almost impossibly rare naturally.”
Clara went pale.
“But not impossible with fertility intervention.”
Her hand moved over her stomach.
“One baby…”
Reyes understood before I finished.
“Could have been conceived before your night together.”
“And the other?”
“Could have been conceived that night.”
Clara stared at me.
One twin might be mine.
One might not.
The absurdity should have been funny.
Instead it was terrifying.
“DNA test,” I said.
Reyes hesitated.
“We can do noninvasive prenatal paternity testing.”
“Do it.”
Clara looked at me.
I stopped.
“Only if you want to.”
That mattered.
Her body.
Her children.
Not my empire.
Not my decision.
She nodded.
“I want to know.”
Reyes drew blood.
Mine.
Clara’s.
Results would take time.
Then Diane suddenly stood.
“I need to tell you something.”
Clara looked at her.
“What?”
Diane’s eyes filled.
“Your egg donation.”
“Mom?”
“I knew.”
Clara stared.
“How?”
“Because I arranged it.”
The room became painfully still.
“I needed money,” Diane said. “Your appeal was expensive. A woman contacted me in prison. She offered to pay the legal fees if you donated anonymously.”
“Who?”
Diane shook her head.
“I never knew.”
Clara’s voice cracked.
“You let someone use me?”
“I thought it was safe.”
“You thought?”
“I was desperate.”
Clara turned away.
The betrayal on her face was quiet.
Devastating.
I understood it.
Parents deciding what happened to your body because they believed they knew best.
Different circumstances.
Same wound.
I sat beside her.
Not touching.
Just there.
Diane cried.
“I’m sorry.”
Clara didn’t answer.
Then Malcolm entered.
“We traced Jonathan’s message.”
“Where?”
“St. Catherine’s.”
The abandoned hospital had closed fourteen years earlier.
I looked toward Clara.
“No.”
She understood immediately.
“You’re going.”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m coming.”
“You can barely stand.”
“I’ve spent eight months being lied to about my own pregnancy.”
“Exactly why you’re staying here.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“You’re very bossy.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“Frequently?”
“Hourly.”
For the first time that night, Clara smiled.
Tiny.
Exhausted.
Beautiful.
Then she reached for my hand.
“Bring your brother home.”
I closed my fingers around hers.
“I’ll try.”
As I turned to leave, Reyes’s phone rang.
He answered.
Listened.
Then looked at me.
“That was the lab.”
“Already?”
“Not the paternity results.”
His expression had changed.
“It’s Clara’s bloodwork.”
“What about it?”
He looked toward her.
“Someone has been giving her medication.”
Clara frowned.
“I don’t take medication.”
Reyes swallowed.
“That’s the problem.”
He showed us the result.
A synthetic hormone.
One commonly used in assisted reproduction.
May you like
Someone had been secretly dosing Clara for months.
And suddenly the impossible pregnancy no longer looked impossible at all.
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