Chapter 6: The Procedure
I read the words again.
*EMBRYO TRANSFER AUTHORIZATION.*
My hands went cold.
The document in the photograph was partially covered, but the signature at the bottom was clear enough.
Dr. Nathan Cole.
My obstetrician.
The man I had trusted with every detail of my pregnancy.
The man who had smiled when we heard our daughter’s heartbeat.
The man who had looked me directly in the eyes during every appointment and told me everything was progressing normally.
Now his name sat beneath a document that appeared to authorize something I had never agreed to.
I zoomed in.
The photograph sharpened.
There were three signatures.
One belonged to Dr. Cole.
One belonged to Adrian.
And the third—
Mine.
But it wasn't my handwriting.
I knew my signature better than anyone.
I had signed mortgage papers, wedding documents, checks, tax forms.
This one had the correct letters.
The correct name.
But the wrong movement.
Too careful.
Too perfect.
Someone had copied me.
I closed the laptop.
Then opened it again.
I couldn't look away.
My phone rang.
I nearly dropped it.
Adrian.
I stared at his name glowing on the screen.
After several rings, I answered.
“Where are you?””
His voice was tense.
“At home.””
“Olivia, I need you to come downstairs.””
“Why?””
“Please.””
“No.””
A pause.
Then he said, “Camille is gone.””
I frowned.
“What?””
“She left.””
“Where?””
“I don't know.””
“Then why are you calling me?””
“Because she took something.””
My pulse quickened.
“What did she take?””
He didn't answer immediately.
“A folder.””
My stomach tightened.
“The clinic folder?””
“Yes.””
I stood.
“Why?””
“I don't know.””
“You're lying.””
“I'm not.””
“You knew she had it.””
“Olivia, listen to me. I swear I didn't know she was going to take it.””
“What was in the folder?””
Silence.
“Adrian.””
“There were medical records.””
“Mine?””
“Yes.””
I closed my eyes.
“I'm coming downstairs.””
I walked into the hallway.
Adrian was waiting at the bottom of the stairs.
His shirt was wrinkled. His hair was disheveled. He looked nothing like the polished man who had sent me away earlier.
“Where did she go?””
“I don't know.””
“Then find her.””
“I’m trying.””
“You’re trying?””
I stepped closer.
“Someone forged my signature. Someone altered my medical records. Someone drugged me.
Someone took documents involving my reproductive care. And somehow, every road keeps leading back to people you trusted.””
“I never drugged you.””
“I didn't say you did.””
“But you were thinking it.””
I stared at him.
His face tightened.
“Olivia, I would never hurt you like that.””
“Then help me understand.””
“I’m trying.””
“You keep saying that.””
He looked toward the front window.
“I got a call from Westbrook.””
“When?””
“About thirty minutes ago.””
“What did they say?””
“That someone had requested the archived records.””
“Who?””
“They wouldn't tell me.””
“Why would they call you?””
“Because my name is on the file.””
“So is mine.””
“Yes.””
I felt a sudden pressure in my chest.
“What else?””
He hesitated.
“They said there was a second procedure.””
I froze.
“What procedure?””
“They wouldn't say over the phone.””
“Did they say when?””
“January 16.””
My knees weakened.
“Second procedure?””
He nodded.
“What kind?””
“I don't know.””
I looked toward the stairs.
The nursery was upstairs.
My baby.
My life.
Everything I thought I knew.
All of it seemed connected to one missing day.
“Take me there.””
Adrian stared at me.
“To Westbrook?””
“Yes.””
“No.””
I turned sharply.
“What?””
“You shouldn't go.””
“Why?””
“Because if someone is trying to manipulate you, that's exactly what they want.””
I laughed bitterly.
“Who are you protecting now?””
“No one.””
“Then take me.””
He rubbed his jaw.
Finally, he nodded.
“Okay.””
Twenty-five minutes later, we were sitting in Adrian’s car.
Neither of us spoke.
The city passed outside the windows in streaks of wet glass and headlights.
My hand rested on my stomach.
The baby moved again.
Three small kicks.
I whispered, “Mommy's here.””
Adrian heard me.
His hands tightened on the steering wheel.
“She knows your voice,” he said quietly.
I looked out the window.
“Do you?””
He didn't answer.
The clinic stood behind a row of dark trees.
Westbrook Reproductive Center.
The sign glowed white against the evening sky.
I had seen that building before.
But apparently, I had also forgotten it.
Inside, the lobby smelled faintly of disinfectant and coffee.
A receptionist looked up.
Her eyes moved from Adrian to me.
Then widened.
“You're…”
I stepped closer.
“Olivia Hart.””
“Yes.””
She swallowed.
“We were told you weren't supposed to come back here.””
My heart stopped.
“Who told you that?””
She looked toward Adrian.
He stepped forward.
“I'm her husband.””
The receptionist lowered her voice.
“Dr. Cole left instructions.””
My stomach tightened.
“What instructions?””
“That she was not to access any records without authorization.””
I stared at her.
“I’m the patient.””
She looked uncomfortable.
“I know.””
“Then I want my records.””
“I can't release those.””
“Why?””
“There's a legal hold.””
I felt Adrian beside me.
“On what grounds?”” he asked.
The receptionist shook her head.
“I can't discuss that.””
A voice came from behind us.
“Let me handle this.””
I turned.
A woman in her fifties approached wearing a navy blazer and an identification badge.
“Ms. Hart?””
“Yes.””
“I'm Evelyn Shaw, clinic administrator.””
She extended her hand.
I didn't take it.
“Why is there a legal hold on my medical records?””
Ms. Shaw glanced at Adrian.
Then back at me.
“Because your file involves an investigation.””
“An investigation into what?””
She took a breath.
“Unauthorized reproductive treatment.””
The words made my stomach twist.
“What treatment?””
She looked toward the hallway.
“I think you should come with me.””
Adrian moved immediately.
“I’m coming too.””
She shook her head.
“Only Mrs. Hart.””
I looked at him.
For once, he didn't argue.
“Go,” he whispered.
I followed Ms. Shaw through a locked door.
The hallway beyond was colder.
At the end was a small conference room.
She closed the door behind us.
Then she placed a thick folder on the table.
My name was written across it.
“Before I show you this,” she said, “I need to ask you something.””
“What?””
“Do you remember being treated here on January 16?””
“No.””
“Do you remember signing consent forms?””
“No.””
“Do you remember undergoing any sedation?””
“No.””
She nodded slowly.
“I thought so.””
My heart pounded.
“What happened?””
She opened the folder.
Inside were pages and pages of medical notes.
She turned to one.
Then another.
“On January 16, you arrived at 9:42 a.m.””
I stared.
“Who brought me?””
“A man.””
“Adrian?””
She shook her head.
“No.””
“Who?””
She looked down at the record.
“He was listed as a family representative.””
“Name?””
She hesitated.
“Daniel Hart.””
My heart stopped.
My father's name.
I hadn't seen his name in years.
“My father?””
“Yes.””
I gripped the table.
“My father was dead.””
Ms. Shaw looked confused.
“Dead?””
“He died six years ago.””
She immediately turned another page.
“That's impossible.””
“What?””
“The identification used that morning was his.””
I shook my head.
“No.””
Ms. Shaw slid a copy of the identification across the table.
It had my father's name.
His date of birth.
His photograph.
But the expiration date was six years after his death.
My skin crawled.
“This is fake.””
“I believe so.””
“Then why did you accept it?””
“We didn't realize.””
“Who signed me in?””
She pointed to the bottom of the registration page.
I looked.
A receptionist's initials.
Then another name.
*Camille Reed.*
My stomach dropped.
“Camille.””
“Yes.””
“Where is the rest?””
Ms. Shaw turned to another page.
“According to the treatment record, you underwent a retrieval procedure.””
“What was retrieved?””
She looked at me carefully.
“Your embryos.””
My breath caught.
“Embryos?””
“Yes.””
“I wasn't undergoing IVF.””
“The records say otherwise.””
“That is impossible.””
Ms. Shaw slid another form toward me.
“This is the transfer authorization.””
My eyes went to the signature.
My signature.
Copied.
Forged.
And below it, a line I had never noticed in the photograph.
*Embryos transferred to approved recipient: Camille Reed.*
The room disappeared.
I couldn't hear anything.
Couldn't feel anything.
Only those words.
Camille.
My husband’s mistress.
The woman sitting in my house.
The woman who had somehow entered a fertility clinic under my name.
The woman who apparently received something that belonged to me.
I pushed the form away.
“No.””
Ms. Shaw's expression softened.
“There’s more.””
I looked up.
“What more could there possibly be?””
She opened another page.
“This transfer was not considered permanent.””
“What does that mean?””
“Because the embryo transfer failed.””
I stared.
“Failed?””
“Yes.””
“When?””
“Three days later.””
I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.
Then I saw the next entry.
*Emergency follow-up requested.*
“Why?””
Ms. Shaw hesitated.
“Because three days after the transfer, Camille returned.””
“For another procedure?””
“No.””
“Then why?””
She looked at me.
“Because she was pregnant.””
I went completely still.
“Pregnant?””
“Yes.””
My stomach dropped.
The baby kicked hard.
I pressed both hands against my belly.
“No.””
Ms. Shaw quietly continued.
“She was told the pregnancy was not viable.””
A strange relief began to rise.
Then she turned one final page.
Her face changed.
“Except…”
I looked at her.
“Except what?””
“The embryo transferred to Camille…”
She swallowed.
“…wasn't the embryo that failed.””
My blood ran cold.
“What are you saying?””
Ms. Shaw looked directly into my eyes.
“The embryo that became viable…”
She paused.
“It was transferred to you.””
I couldn't breathe.
My hand covered my stomach.
“My baby?””
Ms. Shaw nodded slowly.
“Yes.””
I stared at her.
“Then whose embryo was transferred to Camille?””
The administrator's face went pale.
“We don't know.””
“Why not?””
“Because the identity of the second embryo was changed in the records.””
“By whom?””
Ms. Shaw looked at the folder.
“The audit trail shows one person accessed the database minutes before the transfer.””
“Who?””
She turned the page.
The name was written in black ink.
I read it once.
Then twice.
And every piece of air left my lungs.
*Dr. Nathan Cole.*
My doctor.
My trusted doctor.
My unborn daughter's doctor.
And beneath his name was one final handwritten note:
*Do not tell Olivia what happened before delivery.*
I looked up.
“Who wrote that?””
Ms. Shaw didn't answer.
Instead, the conference-room door suddenly opened.
Adrian stood there.
His face was white.
Behind him was a police officer.
And the officer was holding a warrant.
“Mrs. Hart,” he said, “we need to ask you about an incident that happened at Westbrook on January 16.””
He looked down at a photograph.
Then back at me.
“You were reported missing that day.””
My heart stopped.
“I wasn't missing.””
The officer's expression tightened.
“According to the original report…”
May you like
He slowly turned the photograph toward me.
“…you were.””
