Chapter 2 - The Woman Listed as an IncubatorI didn't answer the mysterious message.
Not immediately.
Harrison was sleeping beside me, one muscular arm resting across his chest, his phone charging on the nightstand.
A man who controlled half of Chicago through fear and loyalty looked almost harmless when he slept.
I knew better now.
I deleted the notification from my lock screen and saved the number beneath a false contact name.
Then I placed the phone facedown.
At three in the morning, Baby C kicked hard enough to make me gasp.
I put my hand on the right side of my stomach.
"You're okay," I whispered.
It was the same thing I'd told myself during every frightening appointment.
Except now I didn't believe it.
I knew the babies were alive.
I knew their hearts were beating.
But I no longer knew what would happen when they were born.
I imagined a hospital room.
Three newborns.
Three tiny faces.
Three little hands searching for warmth.
Then Harrison walking through the door with paperwork.
Nurses taking the babies away.
A lawyer telling me they weren't mine.
I couldn't breathe.
I slipped into the bathroom and locked the door.
Then I sat on the edge of the bathtub and cried without making a sound.
I cried for the babies.
For the years I'd spent believing I couldn't become a mother.
For the injections Harrison held while I squeezed my eyes shut.
For every negative pregnancy test.
Every failed treatment.
Every night he'd promised we'd have our family someday.
And finally, I cried for the woman I'd been that morning.
The woman who still believed her husband loved her.
When the tears stopped, I looked into the mirror.
My face was swollen.
My eyes were red.
But something had changed.
I was terrified.
Yet beneath the terror, there was anger.
Not loud anger.
Not the kind that makes a person throw dishes or scream accusations.
Something colder.
Something stronger.
Harrison had spent our marriage believing I was easy to control because I loved him.
He had mistaken patience for weakness.
Trust for stupidity.
And kindness for surrender.
He was going to discover the difference.
The next morning, I received a reminder about my appointment with Dr. Enzo Bellini.
Northshore Reproductive Center.
Eleven o'clock.
Harrison had arranged for his personal driver to take me.
I stared at the appointment details.
Until yesterday, Bellini had been the man I trusted with my life.
He had treated me for infertility for nearly four years.
He knew how desperately I wanted children.
He'd held my hand when our first retrieval yielded fewer eggs than expected.
He'd told me not to give up after two failed cycles.
When I became pregnant with triplets, he'd hugged Harrison and congratulated us.
Now I wondered whether he had celebrated the success of a medical procedure I never consented to.
My phone vibrated.
Another message from the unknown number.
Ask Bellini about transfer batch R-417.
I typed:
Who are you?
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Then returned.
I can't tell you yet.
I stared at the message.
How do I know you're not working for Harrison?
This time the reply took nearly a minute.
You don't. That's why you shouldn't trust me without evidence.
That answer surprised me.
Harrison's people always demanded trust.
They never encouraged questions.
I typed one final message.
What is R-417?
The answer made my stomach drop.
The number attached to the procedure that made you pregnant.
Dr. Bellini's clinic occupied two floors of a modern building near Chicago's Gold Coast.
Everything was designed to appear comforting.
Cream-colored sofas.
Fresh orchids.
Soft instrumental music.
Framed photographs of smiling parents holding newborn babies.
I had once found those photographs inspiring.
Now they seemed like advertisements for happiness that could be manufactured without consent.
Daniel escorted me into the reception area.
A nurse named Susan greeted me.
"Mrs. Romano! How are our three little miracles?"
I smiled automatically.
"Keeping me busy."
She led me toward a private examination room.
Daniel remained outside.
I waited until the door closed.
Then I turned toward Susan.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"Are my records accessible to anyone besides this clinic?"
Her smile faltered.
"Your medical team can access authorized information."
"Does my husband have access?"
"Mr. Romano is listed as your emergency contact."
"That's not what I asked."
Susan looked uncomfortable.
Before she could answer, the door opened.
Dr. Bellini entered.
He was sixty-two, with silver hair and a polished, reassuring manner.
"Chloe, my dear."
He kissed my cheek.
I almost recoiled.
Instead, I sat very still.
"Harrison said you had abdominal discomfort yesterday."
"A little."
"Any bleeding?"
"No."
"Fluid leakage?"
"No."
"Regular contractions?"
"I don't think so."
He performed an ultrasound and checked my cervix.
The babies were moving.
Their heartbeats sounded strong.
For several minutes, I allowed myself to forget everything else.
I watched Baby A stretch a tiny arm.
Baby B turned away from the probe.
Baby C appeared to be sucking a thumb.
My eyes filled.
Whatever Harrison had done, these children were innocent.
They deserved safety.
And I needed accurate medical care, not another performance arranged by my husband.
Bellini finished the examination.
"Everything appears stable today, but triplet pregnancies require careful monitoring."
He removed his gloves.
"I'd prefer you reduce your activities."
I nodded.
Then I asked casually, "Can I get a complete copy of my medical records?"
Bellini stopped writing.
"Why?"
"I want to organize everything before delivery."
"We already have everything organized."
"I know. I'd still like my own copy."
He smiled.
"Of course. I'll have Susan prepare a summary."
"I'd prefer the complete file."
A pause.
"The complete file is extensive."
"I have plenty of time."
His smile thinned.
"Chloe, you don't need to worry about administrative details."
I looked directly at him.
"Shouldn't I be allowed to see them?"
Something hardened behind his eyes.
"Naturally."
He tapped his pen against the desk.
"But some technical laboratory documents can be confusing without context."
"Then perhaps you can explain them."
He looked at me for a long moment.
And I knew.
He was frightened.
Not for me.
For himself.
I leaned forward.
"Doctor, what's transfer batch R-417?"
His pen slipped.
It struck the desk with a small metallic sound.
For two seconds, he didn't move.
Then he recovered.
"Where did you hear that number?"
I pretended to think.
"I saw it on an old billing statement."
"That's merely an internal reference."
"What does it refer to?"
"Laboratory processing."
"Of my embryos?"
Bellini looked toward the door.
Then he lowered his voice.
"Chloe, I strongly advise you to focus on your pregnancy rather than technical matters."
I felt anger rise in my throat.
"Why?"
"Stress isn't healthy for you."
The words sounded so much like Harrison that I almost laughed.
Stay calm until delivery.
That was their entire strategy.
Keep Chloe calm.
Keep Chloe obedient.
Keep Chloe unaware.
I rested my hands against my stomach.
"Thank you, Doctor."
He seemed relieved.
Then I added, "I'd also like a second opinion from an independent maternal-fetal medicine specialist."
His smile disappeared completely.
"Harrison has already arranged excellent specialists."
"I know."
"Then why would you need another?"
"Because I'd feel better."
Bellini stood.
"Let me speak with your husband."
My chest tightened.
"About my request?"
"About coordinating care."
I rose carefully from the examination chair.
"Please don't mistake my request for permission to discuss everything I say with him."
Bellini stared.
For the first time, he looked less like a trusted physician and more like a man calculating how much danger I represented.
Then he said quietly:
"Chloe, there are circumstances surrounding your pregnancy that you may not fully understand."
My heart stopped.
I waited.
He stepped closer.
"Sometimes knowing too much can create unnecessary complications."
I held his gaze.
"Medical complications?"
He didn't answer.
"Or complications for Harrison?"
The room became silent.
Then Bellini whispered:
"You have no idea how powerful your husband is."
I felt the babies move.
Three small reminders.
Three reasons not to break.
I whispered back:
"Then perhaps you have no idea how dangerous it is to underestimate a mother."
His face drained of color.
I left before he could answer.
Outside the clinic, Daniel stood beside the black SUV.
"Ready to go home, Mrs. Romano?"
"Actually, I need to stop at the hospital."
His eyebrows rose.
"Is something wrong?"
"I want to arrange a second opinion."
"I should call Mr. Romano."
"Why?"
"Those are my instructions."
I looked at him.
"Daniel, I'm asking to see a doctor. I'm not asking you to hide a body."
His jaw tightened.
"I'm just following orders."
"I understand."
I placed my hand on my stomach.
"Then call him. Tell him his pregnant wife is requesting medical care."
Daniel hesitated.
He was not a cruel man.
He was a man who had become accustomed to obeying someone cruel.
After a moment, he opened the car door.
"Which hospital?"
"Lakeview University Medical Center."
He nodded.
I climbed inside.
My hands were trembling.
But I had won one small decision.
And it mattered more than Harrison could possibly understand.
At the hospital, I met Dr. Naomi Brooks.
She was a maternal-fetal medicine specialist in her early forties, with warm brown eyes and a direct manner.
Unlike Bellini, she didn't greet me as Harrison Romano's wife.
She greeted me as Chloe.
That difference nearly made me cry.
After reviewing the limited records I had brought, she examined me and explained the risks of carrying triplets.
Preterm labor.
Growth problems.
Placental complications.
Potential hospitalization.
The possibility that the babies might need neonatal intensive care.
She didn't minimize anything.
And strangely, her honesty made me feel safer.
When she finished, I asked whether we could speak privately.
The nurse left.
Dr. Brooks pulled up a chair.
"Of course."
I stared at my hands.
Then I told her.
Not everything.
Not Harrison's criminal organization.
Not the threats implied in his conversation.
But enough.
"I recently discovered that my fertility doctor may have transferred embryos I didn't authorize."
Dr. Brooks remained very still.
"What makes you believe that?"
I explained the conversation I'd overheard.
The altered paperwork.
The suspicious transfer batch.
The forged signature.
Her expression grew serious.
"Chloe, what you're describing raises profound consent and safety concerns."
"Can you tell whether the babies are genetically mine?"
"Not from an ultrasound. Genetic parentage would require appropriate testing, and we'd need to consider the risks and whether testing during pregnancy is necessary."
I nodded.
"I don't want anything that could hurt them."
"Then we can focus on protecting your health while you consult independent legal counsel. We can also review the medical information we can obtain."
I took a shaky breath.
"Can my husband stop me from receiving treatment here?"
"You're an adult patient. Unless there are unusual legal circumstances affecting your ability to make decisions, your medical consent is yours."
Tears burned my eyes.
It had been so long since anyone had reminded me that my body belonged to me.
Dr. Brooks leaned forward.
"Are you safe at home?"
The question broke something open.
I tried to answer.
My mouth moved.
No sound came out.
She waited.
Then I whispered, "I'm not sure."
She didn't panic.
She didn't demand an immediate explanation.
She simply said, "We have a social worker who can help you plan safely. And if you'd like, we can speak to our hospital's patient advocate."
For the first time in twenty-four hours, I felt a small opening in the walls surrounding me.
Someone outside Harrison's world was willing to listen.
After the appointment, I asked to use a hospital telephone.
I called a number I hadn't dialed in almost two years.
Tessa Morgan.
My college roommate.
My closest friend before Harrison gradually convinced me that Tessa disliked him and didn't respect our marriage.
She was also a family-law attorney.
And one of the few people I knew who had never been impressed by the Romano name.
She answered on the fourth ring.
"Hello?"
"Tessa."
Silence.
Then:
"Chloe?"
My throat tightened.
"Hi."
"Is everything okay?"
I closed my eyes.
"No."
Her voice changed.
"Where are you?"
"At Lakeview University Medical Center."
"Are the babies okay?"
That question nearly destroyed me.
Because I had barely spoken to Tessa since becoming pregnant, and somehow she still knew enough to ask about my children.
"They're okay."
"Then tell me what's happening."
I looked toward the closed door.
"Tessa, I need a lawyer."
A pause.
"I'm a lawyer."
"Not one who knows my husband."
Another pause.
This time longer.
Then she said, "Chloe, are you afraid of Harrison?"
I looked down at my swollen belly.
"Yes."
Tessa inhaled sharply.
Then her voice became steady.
"Listen carefully. Do not send me any more details from a device he may control. Stay near medical staff if you feel threatened. I'm coming to the hospital."
I started crying.
"Tessa, I think he stole my babies before they were even born."
She didn't ask whether I was exaggerating.
She didn't tell me to calm down.
She simply said:
"Then we're going to find out what happened."
That evening, I returned home with a printed appointment schedule and a new plan.
Dr. Brooks had agreed to review my case.
Tessa had connected me with a lawyer experienced in reproductive and parentage disputes.
And I had requested copies of my complete fertility records through a formal patient-records process.
I knew those steps wouldn't magically free me.
Harrison still controlled our home.
Our finances.
Much of our security.
And possibly the very people responsible for my pregnancy.
But I was no longer completely alone.
At nine o'clock, I found a package on the nursery rocking chair.
No return address.
No delivery label.
Inside was a plain envelope.
My name was written across the front.
I opened it.
There was one photocopied document.
At the top:
GESTATIONAL CARRIER CASE FILE — R-417
Below that:
Carrier: Chloe Bennett Romano
Genetic Relationship to Embryos: None
My vision blurred.
I already suspected the truth.
But seeing it written in black and white was different.
I turned the page.
Three embryos.
Three separate identifiers.
Three different genetic mothers.
And in a column labeled Post-Delivery Placement, someone had typed:
Infant A — Harper Vale
Infant B — Madison Cruz
Infant C — Estate of Audrey Ferraro
My hands shook.
Then I noticed a fourth line near the bottom.
Maternal contact following delivery: Restricted pending psychiatric assessment.
I read it again.
And again.
Harrison wasn't merely planning to take my babies.
He was preparing a way to make sure nobody believed me when I protested.
At the bottom of the document was a handwritten note.
Ask why the psychiatric assessment was scheduled before you ever became pregnant.
I sank into the rocking chair.
Somewhere downstairs, Harrison was laughing into his phone.
And I finally understood the full shape of the trap.
May you like
My husband hadn't simply chosen someone else to raise my children.
He had begun building a case to declare me an unstable mother before those children even existed.
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