part 2
PART 2
Emily went home instead of meeting Vivian.
The Keller townhouse sat on a quiet street in Lincoln Park, all white brick, black shutters, and money old enough to look modest. Diane had moved in six months after Emily and Mason married, claiming her condo renovation was delayed. The renovation ended. Diane stayed.
She was in the living room when Emily entered, watching daytime television with a cup of coffee cooling on the glass table.
“You’re back,” Diane said without turning. “Well? What did the doctor say?”
Emily hung her coat by the door. “I’m pregnant.”
Diane turned so quickly the remote slipped from her hand.
For one miraculous second, she smiled.
A real smile.
“Oh,” Diane breathed. “Well. That’s wonderful news. Mason knows?”
“He told me to have an abortion.”
The smile died.
Diane’s face did not show shock. It showed calculation.
“That boy,” she said, forcing a laugh. “Always saying foolish things under pressure.”
“Why would he say that?”
“How should I know?”
Emily stepped closer. “You knew something, didn’t you?”
Diane stood. “Don’t accuse me because your marriage is unhappy.”
“My marriage became unhappy when my husband started taking Vivian Hart to prenatal checkups.”
Diane’s mouth tightened.
There it was.
Not surprise.
Fear.
Emily walked past her and locked herself in the bedroom.
The room smelled of Mason’s cologne and the lavender detergent Diane insisted on buying. Emily pulled a shoebox from the back of the closet. Inside were the small evidences she had collected and hated herself for collecting: a hotel receipt from San Diego, a silk scarf that was not hers, screenshots of Mason’s Wednesday GPS route, and an old phone Mason thought no longer worked.
She plugged it in.
The screen lit up.
The wallpaper was Mason and Vivian on a beach in Santa Barbara. Vivian’s arms were around his waist. Mason was smiling in a way Emily had not seen in years.
Emily opened the gallery.
More photos. More lies. Vivian in Mason’s car. Vivian in his office building. Vivian leaning against him at a rooftop bar in Washington, D.C., two months before Emily’s wedding.
She opened her own phone and searched Vivian Hart.
Vivian had founded a boutique consulting firm four months earlier. The address was across the street from Mason’s office. The company registration listed two shareholders.
Vivian Hart: 60%.
Mason Keller: 40%.
Emily stared at the number.
Eight months ago, Mason had told Emily they needed to move half their savings into “an investment opportunity.” He had kissed her forehead and promised it was for their future.
Their future had a name.
Vivian.
The bedroom door handle turned.
Locked.
“Emily,” Mason said from the hallway.
She did not answer.
“Open the door.”
“No.”
His voice lowered. “Please. Don’t have the procedure.”
Emily stood slowly. “Why?”
A long silence.
“Because the baby is mine.”
Emily laughed so hard tears came.
“And Vivian’s?” she asked through the door. “Whose baby is that?”
“It isn’t mine.”
“Then whose is it?”
Silence.
Emily opened the door.
Mason stood there in a wrinkled suit, his tie loose, his eyes bloodshot. He looked destroyed, but not innocent.
“You get one chance,” Emily said. “Tell me everything.”
Mason rubbed his face. “Vivian’s situation is complicated.”
“Of course it is.”
“She had IVF. Her husband is overseas. I’m helping because she doesn’t have anyone here.”
“What’s her husband’s name?”
Mason looked away.
Emily smiled. “You don’t know your close friend’s husband?”
Before Mason could answer, the doorbell rang.
Diane rushed from the kitchen, looked through the peephole, and stiffened.
Vivian Hart entered carrying a fruit basket.
She looked elegant, pale, perfectly fragile.
“Emily,” Vivian said. “I wanted to apologize for today.”
“How kind.”
Vivian sat on the sofa, one hand resting protectively on her belly. “Mason and I are only friends. This baby belongs to me and my husband.”
“What’s his name?”
Vivian’s smile flickered.
Diane snapped, “Emily, stop interrogating a pregnant woman.”
Emily ignored her. “What is his name, Vivian?”
Vivian stood. “I can see this isn’t a good time.”
As she turned toward the door, Mason’s phone buzzed.
Emily saw the message before he could hide it.
From Vivian:
You cannot let her abort. That child has to be born.
Emily’s blood went cold.
“What are you hiding from me?”
Vivian left.
The door clicked shut.
Diane sat down slowly, her hands trembling. “Emily, honey, there’s something you need to understand.”
Mason closed his eyes.
Diane swallowed. “Mason can’t have children.”
The room went silent.
Emily looked at Mason. “What?”
“He has a fertility problem,” Diane whispered. “The child you’re carrying… it may not be Mason’s.”
Emily felt the floor tilt.
Diane reached for her hand. Emily pulled away.
“Then whose child is it?”
Diane’s voice dropped.
“Vivian’s husband’s.”
Emily stared at her.
“We borrowed your eggs,” Diane said. “Vivian needed them. You were compatible.”
For several seconds, Emily could not breathe.
“My eggs?”
Mason finally spoke. “During your emergency surgery three months ago, the clinic—”
Emily staggered back.
Three months ago, Mason had rushed her to a private hospital in San Diego after she collapsed with abdominal pain during a business trip. The doctor said it was an ovarian cyst. She remembered anesthesia. White lights. Mason holding her hand when she woke.
“You took my eggs while I was unconscious?”
“No,” Mason said quickly. “There were papers. Consent forms.”
“I consented to cyst surgery.”
Diane’s face hardened. “Your eggs would have gone to waste.”
Emily looked at them both as if they were strangers wearing human faces.
Then Diane said the sentence that changed everything.
“Vivian’s baby is sick. When your baby is born, the cord blood can save hers.”
Emily touched her stomach.
So that was it.
May you like
Her baby was not a child to them.
Her baby was medicine.
