Chapter 6 - The Doctor Who Thought My Body Belonged to HimAt twenty-seven weeks pregnant, I was beginning to understand that the worst part of betrayal wasn't always the moment someone lied.
Sometimes it was discovering how many people had helped make the lie possible.
The pendant belonged to Audrey.
Katherine confirmed it as soon as I showed her the photograph.
“She wore that every day,” she whispered.
“Who sent it?”
“My mother.”
I stared at her.
“Your mother?”
Katherine nodded.
“She didn't know whether you would accept anything from us. She asked me to arrange delivery without making you feel obligated.”
I looked down at the crescent moon resting in my palm.
“Why now?”
“Because she's finally ready to face what Harrison did.”
I swallowed.
“Does she still want the baby?”
Katherine's expression softened.
“She wants to honor Audrey's wishes. And she wants to know the child is safe.”
I nodded.
Those weren't the same questions.
I understood that now.
Audrey's parents had lost their daughter.
They had been manipulated into believing a grandchild could somehow make that loss bearable.
But Baby C wasn't a replacement for Audrey.
Baby C was a person.
And no amount of grief gave anyone the right to decide a child's future through fraud.
“What's the accession number?” I asked.
Katherine took a breath.
“Audrey kept copies of records from the original clinic. That number identifies one of the embryos she and Harrison created.”
I stared at the slip of paper.
“Can it prove something?”
“It may help investigators connect the embryo transferred into you with the records from Audrey's original storage account.”
My hands trembled.
“And the case reference?”
Katherine looked away.
“That belongs to the complaint Audrey made before she died.”
I swallowed.
“What complaint?”
“She believed Harrison had altered a consent form.”
I stared at her.
“He was doing this even then?”
“She caught a discrepancy while reviewing the storage paperwork. Her attorney notified the clinic, and she demanded an independent audit.”
“Was there one?”
Katherine shook her head.
“The clinic said the issue had been corrected. But the original complaint may show that someone was warned about the risk years ago.”
I looked toward the window.
The city beyond the hospital was bright with morning sunlight.
Cars moved through traffic.
People walked to work.
Somewhere, life continued as though nothing extraordinary had happened.
Yet inside my room, I was holding evidence that a dead woman had tried to stop the same man who had nearly destroyed my life.
Three days later, investigators interviewed me.
They were accompanied by an assistant state's attorney and a specialist familiar with healthcare fraud investigations.
Elena and Thomas were present.
I repeated what Harrison had said at the hotel.
I explained the missing embryos.
I described the forged documents.
I showed them the messages about the attempted shipment.
Then they asked about Dr. Nathan Voss.
The name made my stomach tighten.
I remembered his office.
The expensive artwork.
The soft music.
The way he always smiled before delivering bad news.
He had performed my embryo transfer.
He had told me three embryos from our treatment were being placed inside my uterus.
He had reassured me when I asked why Harrison needed to handle the paperwork.
And he had been present every time I expressed concerns about the number of embryos being transferred.
“He told me it was our best chance,” I whispered.
The investigator asked whether I'd signed a consent form specifically identifying three embryos from different genetic mothers.
“No.”
“Were you ever told that embryos associated with Audrey Quinn, Madison Ellis, or Harper Sinclair would be used?”
“No.”
“Did Dr. Voss ever discuss the legal implications of acting as a gestational carrier?”
I shook my head.
“I wasn't acting as a gestational carrier. At least, I didn't know I was. I thought I was undergoing IVF to have my own biological children.”
The investigator nodded.
Then she asked the question that nearly broke me.
“Did you feel free to refuse the procedure?”
I opened my mouth.
No sound came out.
I remembered sitting in the transfer room.
The paper gown.
The cold examination table.
Harrison standing beside me, holding my hand.
Dr. Voss explaining that the procedure was ready.
I had wanted those babies so desperately.
I had believed the embryos were ours.
If someone had told me the truth, would I have consented?
Never.
Not without understanding the risks, the genetic origins, and the rights of everyone involved.
Tears slid down my face.
“No,” I whispered. “Because nobody gave me the information I needed to make a real choice.”
The investigator waited.
Then she said, “Thank you. I know this is difficult.”
I looked at her.
“Can you stop him from doing this to someone else?”
She didn't make a promise.
But she looked me directly in the eyes.
“We're taking the allegations seriously.”
That evening, Harper Sinclair went public.
She posted a video on social media wearing a white silk blouse and sitting in what appeared to be a professionally staged living room.
Behind her stood shelves of expensive books.
A framed photograph showed Harrison smiling beside her at a charity event.
She looked straight into the camera.
“I've stayed silent because this involves deeply personal medical matters,” she began. “But misinformation is spreading, and I won't allow my future child to become a weapon in someone else's marital dispute.”
I stared at the screen.
June stood beside my bed.
“You don't have to watch this.”
“Yes,” I whispered. “I do.”
Harper continued.
She described herself as a woman who had made the difficult decision to preserve embryos because she wasn't ready to experience pregnancy.
She said she had entrusted Harrison with arranging an ethical gestational-carrier agreement.
She insisted all parties had been represented.
Then she made her accusation.
“Unfortunately, the woman carrying the embryos has now decided to disregard the agreement she signed.”
My chest tightened.
Harper looked directly into the camera.
“I understand that pregnancy creates an emotional bond. But emotional attachment does not erase the rights of the people who created these embryos.”
I felt tears burn behind my eyes.
She was speaking about me.
As though I were a stranger trying to steal a child from a loving mother.
As though I hadn't been lied to.
As though she hadn't stood outside that lounge and admitted she knew I wasn't supposed to discover the truth until after delivery.
Then she added, “I hope Chloe receives the mental health support she clearly needs.”
June grabbed the phone.
“That's enough.”
I stared at the blank screen.
For several seconds, I couldn't speak.
Then I whispered, “She knew.”
June looked at me.
“What?”
“Harper knew I hadn't been told. She said it outside the lounge.”
I reached for my phone.
The recording.
I opened it.
I listened to the beginning.
My voice.
Harrison's voice.
Harper's voice.
But the recording had started after Harper's most revealing sentence.
Her admission wasn't on it.
I felt my stomach drop.
“June.”
She sat beside me.
“We have other evidence.”
“But she's lying publicly.”
“I know.”
I began crying.
“How many people are going to believe her?”
June hesitated.
Then she said something I'd never forget.
“Chloe, we don't need the entire internet to believe you. We need the people who can protect you and the babies to examine the facts.”
I looked at her.
She squeezed my hand.
“That's where we focus.”
The following morning, the hospital received a written request from attorneys representing Harper Sinclair.
They sought information about the pregnancy and proposed participation in a coordinated care meeting.
My medical team explained the request to me.
I declined any disclosure without legal review.
Dr. Patel supported my decision.
Then she asked whether I'd noticed headaches, swelling, or changes in vision.
I had.
Not severe symptoms.
But my feet had swollen more than usual.
And the previous evening, I'd experienced a headache that didn't respond to rest.
Dr. Patel ordered additional tests.
My blood pressure had begun rising.
Not dangerously at that moment.
But enough to worry her.
Triplet pregnancies already carried substantial risks.
The possibility of a hypertensive disorder was another complication we couldn't ignore.
“We're going to monitor you more closely,” she explained.
I nodded.
“Can stress cause this?”
“Stress can affect how you feel and sometimes blood pressure readings, but pregnancy-related hypertensive disorders are complex. Please don't blame yourself.”
I stared at her.
“Will the babies be okay?”
“We'll continue evaluating their growth and well-being. If delivery becomes medically necessary, our neonatal team will be prepared.”
I looked down at my stomach.
I had spent so much time fighting Harrison that I sometimes forgot the most important battle was happening inside my body.
Three children.
Still growing.
Still needing time.
I placed both hands over them.
“Please stay a little longer,” I whispered.
That afternoon, Dr. Voss came to the hospital.
He arrived without an appointment.
He asked the staff to tell me he needed to discuss an urgent issue concerning the pregnancy.
I refused to see him.
Then he left a message with the front desk.
Tell Chloe that if she keeps refusing cooperation, the outcome may be devastating for the babies.
I felt cold when the nurse repeated it.
Thomas instructed me not to contact him directly.
He preserved the message and notified investigators.
I couldn't stop thinking about the words.
Devastating for the babies.
Was he threatening me?
Was there some medical complication he hadn't disclosed?
Or was he simply trying to frighten me into submission?
Dr. Patel reviewed my records and assured me that my current medical team was making decisions based on independently obtained assessments.
There was no reason for Dr. Voss to dictate my care.
Still, I barely slept that night.
I dreamed of three empty cribs.
When I woke, I was crying.
The next day, Leah Ortiz met with investigators.
Her attorney later authorized Thomas to share a limited summary of the information she had provided.
She confirmed that the three embryo identifiers had been associated with separate genetic-source records.
She also confirmed she'd raised concerns about the absence of verified consent documentation.
Then she revealed something none of us expected.
On the morning of my transfer, the laboratory's standard double-witness verification process had been bypassed.
Dr. Voss personally approved the final release.
Leah had insisted on reviewing the discrepancy before the procedure.
She was removed from the transfer team.
Another staff member was instructed to proceed.
The laboratory record afterward listed Leah as having verified information she said she'd never approved.
I felt physically ill.
“They used her name?”
Thomas nodded.
“That's her allegation.”
“Why?”
“To make the records appear properly reviewed.”
I stared at the wall.
Every time I thought we'd reached the bottom of Harrison's deception, another layer appeared.
But then Thomas shared one more detail.
The original embryos created from my eggs had not been discarded.
Investigators had identified the storage container associated with the emergency transfer order.
A certified laboratory was reviewing inventory records under independent supervision.
We still needed verified chain-of-custody documentation.
But the samples appeared to remain in storage.
I covered my mouth.
“Are they okay?”
“We don't have enough information to guarantee viability, Chloe. But there is no evidence they've been thawed or destroyed.”
I began crying.
It wasn't certainty.
But after weeks of fearing they were gone forever, it felt like a small miracle.
That evening, Harrison sent me a voice message.
He sounded tired.
Almost defeated.
“Chloe, I know you hate me right now. But you need to understand that I never wanted to hurt you.”
I listened in silence.
“I made decisions because the situation was complicated. Audrey's family was grieving. Madison deserved a chance. Harper had expectations. And you wanted to be pregnant.”
He paused.
“Everyone got something they wanted.”
My stomach turned.
He truly believed that.
Or at least he wanted me to believe it.
Then his voice softened.
“I still love you. Come home. We can figure out how to raise one of them together.”
I froze.
One.
He said one of them.
Not all three.
I replayed the message.
We can figure out how to raise one of them together.
My hands began shaking.
Had he changed his plan?
Had one of the other women refused?
Or had he always intended to keep one baby as a bargaining chip?
I called Elena.
She listened carefully.
Then she asked me to forward the message.
“We'll preserve it.”
I stared at the ceiling.
“Elena, if he gets one baby, what happens to the other two?”
She was quiet.
Then she said, “That's exactly the question we need to establish through the documents.”
At 11:16 that night, my room phone rang.
The caller was Benjamin Cole.
He sounded frightened.
“Chloe, I'm sorry to call so late.”
“What happened?”
“I just found out what Harrison's planning.”
My heart began pounding.
“What?”
“He knows the original transfer agreements may not hold up.”
I sat upright.
Benjamin continued.
“He's trying to negotiate new ones.”
I felt sick.
“With whom?”
“Harper and the Quinn family. Madison's attorney refused to participate.”
My hands tightened around the phone.
“Negotiate what?”
“An agreement assigning different custody and financial outcomes depending on which children survive the delivery.”
For a moment, I couldn't speak.
I looked down at my stomach.
Three babies.
Three human beings whose survival depended on medical care, not a business strategy.
“He's still making deals?”
Benjamin's voice cracked.
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
Then he said, “Chloe, there's something worse.”
I gripped the phone.
“What?”
“Harrison has been telling people you're not going to survive the birth.”
The room seemed to tilt.
My heart hammered against my ribs.
“He's what?”
“He's saying the doctors expect catastrophic complications. He's preparing financial and guardianship arrangements based on you being dead.”
I pressed a hand over my mouth.
I had never heard any doctor tell me I was dying.
My pregnancy was dangerous.
But Harrison was apparently presenting my death as an expected business event.
Benjamin whispered, “I don't know whether he's just exploiting the possibility or whether there's something else going on.”
I couldn't answer.
May you like
Then he said the words that made my blood turn to ice.
“He told me the entire problem would become much simpler if you weren't around to object.”
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