Chapter 2 - THE WORD “AGAIN”
“Last year… there was another pregnancy.”
Marcus’s voice barely rose above a whisper.
“She miscarried.”
The room became completely still.
I stared at the man I had been married to for seven years.
Last year.
Not seven months ago.
Not during the final stage of our IVF cycle.
Last year.
Meaning the affair had started long before he had admitted.
“How long have you been sleeping with her?”
Marcus rubbed his forehead.
“Valeria—”
“How long?”
Arthur remained standing beside the coffee table.
His medals still caught the light from our living room chandelier.
Marcus looked toward his father as though hoping for rescue.
Arthur gave him none.
“Answer your wife.”
Marcus swallowed.
“Fourteen months.”
I felt something inside me go strangely quiet.
Fourteen months.
For almost a year and a half, I had been injecting myself in the stomach every evening.
Hormone shots.
Blood tests.
Egg retrieval.
Failed implantation.
A second cycle.
Another loss.
And every time I cried, Marcus had held me.
“I’m here,” he used to say.
Apparently he had also been going to Rachel.
I stood.
My C-section incision pulled sharply.
Arthur immediately noticed.
“Sit down, Valeria.”
“I’m fine.”
“You are three weeks postpartum.”
“I said I’m fine.”
My voice cracked.
I wasn't.
But I refused to collapse in front of Marcus.
I looked at the divorce papers on the dining table.
“When did you prepare those?”
Marcus said nothing.
Arthur picked them up.
He read the attorney’s name.
His expression hardened.
“Dean Harrow.”
Marcus looked away.
Arthur stared at him.
“You used family counsel?”
“He represents me personally.”
“No.”
Arthur's voice became dangerously calm.
“He represents several Vance trust entities.”
Marcus stiffened.
“That doesn't matter.”
“It matters if he drafted a marital settlement transferring trust-linked property without notifying the trustees.”
I looked at Arthur.
“What?”
He opened the papers.
I had barely glanced at them earlier.
I was exhausted.
Marcus had placed tabs beside every signature line and told me:
“This is the cleanest way to end things.”
Now Arthur examined the language.
Then he handed the agreement to me.
“Section eleven.”
I read.
In exchange for a cash payment of $75,000, I would waive any claim against “all marital residential and investment property currently administered by Marcus Vance.”
Our house.
Investment accounts.
The family stake.
Everything.
Seventy-five thousand dollars.
I laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because sometimes betrayal became so enormous the body stopped knowing how to respond.
“You expected me to sign this tonight?”
Marcus finally became defensive.
“You would still receive child support.”
“For twins.”
“Yes.”
“Three weeks after major surgery.”
“You have a degree. You can work.”
Arthur slammed the folder shut.
“Get out.”
Marcus stared.
“Dad.”
“I said get out of the room.”
“This is my house.”
Arthur looked at him.
“No.”
Marcus froze.
Arthur pointed toward the trust documents.
“The residence is held by the Vance Family Residential Trust.”
“You gave it to us.”
“I allowed you to occupy it.”
Marcus's face reddened.
“I'm a beneficiary.”
“So are your sons.”
Arthur turned toward me.
“And until formal review is complete, no one removes Valeria or those children.”
Marcus laughed bitterly.
“So she texts you one picture and suddenly I'm homeless?”
Arthur's jaw tightened.
“No. You became a problem when you stole from your children.”
“I didn't steal anything.”
“Then explain the $860,000.”
Marcus pointed toward the statements.
“Expenses.”
“Jewelry?”
“Personal.”
“Apartment?”
“Personal.”
“Fertility clinic?”
Silence.
I looked at Marcus.
Arthur did too.
“The fertility clinic,” Arthur repeated.
Marcus's face changed.
Not guilt.
Fear.
That frightened me more.
I picked up the statement.
Evergreen Reproductive Institute — $118,400.
The same clinic Marcus and I had used.
My stomach turned.
“Why were trust funds paying our fertility clinic?”
Marcus stood.
“I'll explain later.”
“No.”
I reached for my phone.
“I'm calling them.”
Marcus moved too quickly.
Arthur stepped between us.
“Sit down.”
Marcus stopped.
He was thirty-four years old.
Arthur's voice still had the power to turn him eighteen.
I called Evergreen.
The after-hours nurse answered.
I gave my name.
Date of birth.
Patient number.
“I need an itemized copy of every payment associated with my treatment.”
A pause.
“Mrs. Vance, those records require written authorization.”
“Fine.”
I looked at Marcus.
“And I want to confirm whether any treatment was billed under Rachel…”
I stopped.
I didn't know her last name.
Arthur did.
“Rachel Camden.”
Marcus stared at him.
I repeated the name.
The nurse went quiet.
Too quiet.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Vance. I cannot discuss another patient's file.”
“Was my husband listed as a financial guarantor?”
Another pause.
“I really cannot—”
Marcus took the phone.
“That’s enough.”
I grabbed it back.
“Don't touch my phone.”
The nurse spoke:
“Mrs. Vance, I would strongly recommend you contact our compliance department tomorrow morning.”
Every person in the room heard the sentence.
Marcus went pale.
“Why?” I asked.
“I can't say more tonight.”
“Is there something wrong with my records?”
Silence.
Then:
“Please contact compliance.”
The call ended.
I stared at Marcus.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“Marcus.”
“I helped Rachel with treatment.”
“What treatment?”
He looked toward Arthur.
Then down.
“After the miscarriage.”
Arthur frowned.
“Why would she need fertility treatment after a miscarriage?”
Marcus's lips pressed together.
My body turned cold.
“Marcus.”
He finally whispered:
“Rachel has trouble conceiving naturally.”
I stared at him.
“She became pregnant twice.”
“With treatment.”
The room tilted.
“You used our fertility clinic.”
“Yes.”
“While I was a patient there.”
“Yes.”
“You were paying for your mistress to get pregnant while I was trying to have your children.”
Marcus closed his eyes.
“That isn't how I thought about it.”
I almost screamed.
“How did you think about it?”
No answer.
Arthur sat down slowly.
Even he looked stunned.
I suddenly remembered something.
During our first IVF cycle, the clinic called me.
A problem with one embryo-storage authorization.
Marcus told me he fixed it.
I had signed dozens of forms.
I trusted him.
Now that memory felt poisonous.
“How many embryos did we create?”
Marcus's head snapped up.
Arthur looked confused.
“Valeria?”
I kept staring at my husband.
“Our first cycle.”
Marcus said nothing.
“Eight viable embryos.”
“Yes.”
“Two transferred.”
“Yes.”
“One failed.”
He swallowed.
“Yes.”
“Two became Noah and Liam after the second transfer.”
“Yes.”
I did the arithmetic.
“And the others?”
“Stored.”
“How many?”
Marcus didn't answer.
My skin turned cold.
“Marcus.”
Arthur stood.
“Answer her.”
Marcus whispered:
“Three.”
I stared.
“No.”
“What?”
“There should have been four remaining.”
His face betrayed him.
One embryo was missing.
I grabbed the table to stay upright.
Arthur looked between us.
“What are you saying?”
I could barely breathe.
“One of our embryos is missing.”
Marcus closed his eyes.
And that was when I understood why Rachel's message had said:
I am not going through this alone again.
Maybe Rachel wasn't simply pregnant with Marcus's child.
May you like
Maybe she was carrying something that belonged to me too.
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