Chapter 9 - THE CAMPAIGNThree weeks later, Caleb Mercer stood on television and announced his candidacy for governor of Illinois.
His slogan was:
FAMILY. FUTURE. FREEDOM.
Clara threw a pillow at the television.
“I hate him.”
I looked at the broken vase behind the television.
“Your aim is concerning.”
“I’m pregnant.”
“That explains neither trajectory nor physics.”
She glared.
I kissed her forehead.
We had developed rules.
Clara insisted on them.
No financial gifts without discussion.
No security decisions about her without her involvement.
No using my influence to erase problems that should be handled legally.
And most importantly:
No calling her “mine.”
“I’m not property,” she told me.
So I never did.
But sometimes, when she slept beside me with one hand resting over the twins, I privately allowed myself another word.
Home.
Caleb’s campaign was brilliant.
He presented himself as a whistleblower.
He accused Mercer Biotech of unethical fertility research.
My company.
My crimes, according to him.
He released carefully edited documents making it appear that I had funded Vale.
Public opinion turned overnight.
Reporters surrounded the tower.
The board demanded I step aside.
I did.
Clara stared at me.
“You resigned?”
“Temporarily.”
“You built that company.”
“Yes.”
“You’re just giving it up?”
“No.”
I sat beside her.
“I’m refusing to use it as a shield.”
She smiled.
“You’re learning.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m extremely surprised.”
I kissed her.
She stole my watch.
I discovered it two hours later in the refrigerator.
Pregnancy had apparently made Clara criminally whimsical.
“Why?”
“You keep checking the time.”
“So you refrigerated a Patek Philippe?”
“It looked stressed.”
I stared at her.
She smiled sweetly.
I loved her.
The realization arrived without drama.
No thunder.
No music.
Just certainty.
I loved Clara Bennett.
And I was terrified to tell her.
The evidence against Caleb needed one thing.
A witness.
Dr. Amelia Vale.
Harold Vale’s daughter.
We found her in Vancouver.
She agreed to testify.
Then disappeared before boarding the flight.
Caleb released another campaign video the same afternoon.
Coincidence had officially left the building.
Jonathan and Diane worked through old records.
Their relationship was complicated.
He cooked for her.
She criticized his cooking.
He bought her flowers.
She asked whether they were stolen.
He proposed once.
She told him to try again when she wasn’t holding a laundry basket.
Clara watched them with fascination.
“Are they dating?”
“I think they’re threatening each other romantically.”
“Is that hereditary?”
I looked at her.
She smiled.
“Don’t answer.”
Then the pregnancy changed.
At twenty-one weeks, Reyes found a problem.
Twin A’s placenta was weakening.
Clara needed surgery.
Risky.
Not catastrophic.
But risky.
She went quiet.
That night I found her sitting in the nursery.
We hadn’t decorated it.
Two empty cribs stood against the wall.
“What if I lose one?”
I sat beside her.
“You’re allowed to be afraid.”
“What if I have to choose?”
“You won’t choose alone.”
She looked at me.
“But Twin B is yours.”
“So?”
“What if saving one risks the other?”
I understood.
She thought biology would decide my answer.
I took her hand.
“Listen carefully.”
She did.
“I love both of them.”
Her eyes filled.
“I haven’t met them. I don’t know their faces. I don’t know whether they’ll inherit your stubbornness or my inability to operate kitchen appliances.”
A watery laugh.
“But I already love both.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
That mattered.
“I choose them because I choose them.”
Clara began crying.
Then she whispered, “I love you.”
My heart stopped.
She looked horrified.
Apparently she hadn’t planned to say it.
“I—”
I kissed her.
When I pulled back, she looked offended.
“I was speaking.”
“You were panicking.”
“I was not.”
“You absolutely were.”
“I take it back.”
“No.”
“You can’t refuse.”
“I’m a billionaire. Apparently I can buy many things.”
“Not that.”
“No.”
I touched her face.
“That one was free.”
Then I finally said it.
“I love you too.”
The surgery was scheduled for Friday.
Thursday night, Amelia Vale walked into a Chicago police station.
Alive.
She carried a hard drive.
And a confession.
By morning, every news organization in America had the story.
Vale admitted Caleb had orchestrated Clara’s unauthorized fertility treatments.
She confirmed Diane’s conviction had been manufactured.
She confirmed Jonathan’s imprisonment.
She confirmed the embryo program.
But then she revealed the final piece.
Caleb had not selected Ethan Mercer as Twin B’s father.
No one had.
Twin B had been conceived naturally.
Our night.
Chance.
Not a program.
Not an experiment.
Just us.
Twin A had been implanted weeks earlier using stored genetic material.
Caleb had intended Clara to carry only Twin A.
Then she met me.
One unexpected night had created a second child.
And because the clinic had continued secretly administering hormones, the second conception had succeeded against astronomical odds.
For once, something in the Mercer family had happened without anyone controlling it.
Clara laughed when she heard.
“So your baby crashed Caleb’s experiment?”
I smiled.
“Apparently.”
“Already causing trouble.”
“Definitely mine.”
Then Amelia said something on television that wiped the smile from my face.
“There is one final misconception.”
Reporters shouted questions.
She looked directly into the camera.
“Caleb Mercer did not create the program.”
Silence.
“He inherited it.”
“From whom?”
Amelia swallowed.
May you like
“Diane Bennett.”
Beside me, Clara stopped breathing.
