I slid the leather journal beneath my thigh when Adrian came out of the dressing room the next morning.
He stopped at the vanity, fastening a silver watch around his wrist. "What are you writing?"
"A grocery list."
His eyes moved to the book in my lap. For half a second, they sharpened. "In your grandfather's journal?"
"I like the paper." I opened it to an older page covered with harmless household notes. "Maria forgets things when I text her, and I forget things when I don't write them down."
Adrian studied me in the mirror. I made myself yawn.
The suspicion eased from his face.
"Make sure she gets those organic strawberries you like," he said. "You need the folate."
"I'll add them."
He collected his briefcase from the armchair and crossed to my side of the bed. His gaze settled on my stomach with the same proprietary intensity I had noticed the night before.
"How active is he this morning?"
We had chosen not to learn the sex at the anatomy scan. Adrian had started saying he weeks ago, as if certainty could make the child more his.
"Quiet," I said. "Probably asleep."
"Good. A calm baby will make recovery easier." He bent and pressed a dry kiss to my forehead. "I have back-to-back meetings. I'll be home by seven. Call me first if you feel anything unusual."
"I remember."
"And stay off your feet."
"Have a good day, Adrian."
The bedroom door closed behind him.
I waited until the security camera at the front gate showed his car turning onto the main road. Then I crossed to the walk-in closet, pushed aside a row of winter coats, and opened the wall safe.
My original IVF file lay inside a manila folder beneath my mother's jewelry box.
The letterhead read Lowell Center for Reproductive Medicine, a division of Lowell Medical Group.
My family's facility. My trust's majority-owned subsidiary. The clinic Adrian believed he controlled because he ran its daily operations.
I spread the documents across the bed.
For the first two years of our marriage, Adrian had avoided intimacy with a dozen plausible explanations: exhaustion, stress, a hormone imbalance he claimed to be treating privately. When I told him I wanted a child, he had cried into my shoulder and confessed to severe male-factor infertility.
"I want a family with you," he had whispered. "I just don't want you to think I'm less of a man."
I had comforted him. I had agreed to IVF. I had endured injections, an egg retrieval, and weeks of appointments because I thought I was protecting his pride.
The clinic created embryos that were supposed to be ours.
Now I knew one of those embryos had been removed from the transfer queue and replaced with an embryo made from Adrian's sperm and Camille's eggs.
My own embryos were not mentioned in the ordinary patient portal after transfer day.
I wrote the omission in the journal.
Then the bedroom intercom buzzed.
"Mrs. Voss?" Maria's voice came through the speaker. "Your sister is here."
I gathered the files, returned them to the safe, and locked it.
"Show her to the sunroom."
Camille was already stretched across the velvet sofa when I entered. She wore a fitted crimson dress and cream heels, an outfit designed to advertise the body she had refused to risk. Sunlight flashed across the diamond on her engagement ring.
"Sera!" She sprang up. Her gaze went straight to my stomach. "Look at you. You're enormous. Are you sure it isn't twins?"
"One baby," I said, taking the high-backed chair opposite her. "The scans have been clear."
She came closer and reached out. "Is he kicking? I want to feel."
I folded both arms over my belly before her hand arrived.
"He's sleeping."
The word left my mouth before I could correct it. Camille's eyes brightened.
"He? Did you finally find out?"
"Adrian has a theory. That's all."
"Adrian's usually right about these things." She withdrew her hand and sat again. "I brought another set of cashmere blankets. The nursery at my place is almost finished, so I ordered extras."
"Your place?"
Her smile slipped. "For visits. Obviously. As the favorite aunt, I need to be prepared."
"How thoughtful."
Camille crossed her legs. "How are you feeling? Adrian said your blood pressure has been unpredictable."
"My blood pressure is normal."
"Maybe he said it was trending up." She waved a hand. "Anyway, you shouldn't worry about the first few weeks. I can take the baby while you recover. You know I don't mind."
"You hate getting up before ten."
"Night nurses exist." She leaned forward. "When exactly is the due date? Mid-November?"
"November eighteenth."
She repeated the date under her breath, as though filing it into a calendar. "And the hospital has you scheduled with Dr. Evans?"
I watched her carefully. "Why would you know that?"
"Adrian mentioned it at the club." Her answer came too quickly. "He talks about you constantly."
"Does he?"
"He's worried." She smiled, then glanced down at her manicured nails. "First babies can come early, can't they? It could happen any time in the last month."
"They come when they come."
"But you'll call me, right? The moment labor starts?"
"Why the urgency?"
Her eyes flicked toward the windows. "I need to schedule my bridal events. Theo still wants that destination wedding, and I don't want anything to overlap with your delivery."
Theo had been waiting nearly three years for Camille to choose a date. She kept him close enough for appearances and far enough not to ask difficult questions. I had once thought her indecision was another form of selfishness. Now it looked like cover.
"You should plan your wedding without me," I said. "I'm sure Theo will understand."
"He understands everything eventually." She laughed and reached for her tea. "I could never do what you're doing, Sera. The injections, the weight gain, labor. Just thinking about pain makes me sick. When Theo and I have children, we'll absolutely use a surrogate."
The porcelain cup clicked against its saucer.
I looked at the woman whose genetic child was stretching beneath my heart.
"Surrogacy requires consent," I said.
Camille blinked. "Of course."
"Informed, written consent. Independent lawyers. Medical screening. A contract that names every party."
Her smile became brittle. "You sound like a brochure."
"I've spent a lot of time in fertility clinics."
For the first time since she arrived, she looked uneasy.
Then her phone chimed. She glanced at the screen, snatched up her purse, and stood.
"I forgot I have a fitting at noon. The seamstress is impossible if I'm late."
"Then you should go."
She bent as if to kiss my cheek. I turned to reach for my tea, and her lips met the air beside me.
"Call me if anything changes," she said.
"I will."
Her heels clicked across the marble foyer. A minute later, the front door shut.
I remained in the sunroom, staring at the empty doorway.
A soft vibration came from the glass coffee table.
Camille's phone lay beside a silver coaster.
The screen lit again.
The sender was saved as a single letter: A.
A message preview appeared beneath it.
The coastal nursery is finished. Eight more weeks, and we bring our baby home.
I leaned forward and picked up the phone.
