Chapter 3 - The Sister Who Knew the Password
Isabella denied disabling anything.
Her attorney would later call it a technical error.
That evening, sitting inside the hospital’s family consultation room, she called it something simpler.
“I changed the privacy setting.”
Marcus stared at her.
“Why?”
“Khloe was upset.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“She didn’t want staff staring at her.”
Khloe sat beside Marcus with one hand beneath her belly.
The baby had passed the immediate monitoring tests.
There was no sign of placental injury or preterm labor.
Her hip and shoulder were sore.
The humiliation was harder to measure.
Dr. Patel had recommended overnight observation.
Hospital security had already documented the physical confrontation based on Khloe’s statement and staff observations after the fact.
But the missing footage meant there would be no clean video showing the entire event.
That almost relieved Khloe.
She did not want the camera to become a magical answer.
She wanted to understand why Isabella had become terrified of it.
Marcus asked again.
“What was in the pouch?”
Isabella’s lips tightened.
“Old fertility paperwork.”
“Why did you have it?”
“Because Khloe asked me to help sort medical records.”
“I did not,” Khloe said.
Isabella turned toward her.
“You asked me six months ago.”
“I asked you to bring insurance statements from Mom’s storage boxes.”
“Same thing.”
“No.”
Marcus leaned forward.
“Why does a fertility report have your name on it?”
Isabella’s confidence faltered.
Then she said, “Because I was a donor.”
Khloe forgot how to breathe.
Marcus stared.
“What?”
Isabella looked at her sister.
“You needed eggs.”
Khloe laughed once, almost soundlessly.
“No.”
“Your first retrieval failed.”
“My second didn’t.”
“That’s what you were told.”
Marcus stood.
The chair legs scraped against the floor.
“Sit down,” Khloe whispered.
He didn’t.
Isabella continued before he could speak.
“After your first retrieval, Dr. Wallace told Mom your reserve was worse than expected.”
“Our mother was dead by then.”
Silence.
A mistake.
Small.
But devastating.
Their mother, Susan Reed, had died eighteen months before Khloe began fertility treatment.
Khloe looked at Isabella.
“What are you talking about?”
Isabella blinked.
Then corrected herself.
“I meant Aunt Laura.”
“No, you didn’t.”
Marcus stepped closer.
“Stop.”
He pointed toward the door.
“If you’re going to keep changing the story, leave.”
Isabella stood.
“You don’t understand what she was like after the miscarriages.”
Khloe flinched.
Marcus’s face changed.
Isabella saw it and pressed harder.
“She couldn’t function. She said she’d do anything for a baby.”
Khloe whispered, “That doesn’t mean I consented to using your eggs.”
“I was trying to help.”
“Then why hide it?”
Isabella looked away.
There.
The first real crack.
Not whether she had helped.
Whether Khloe had ever been allowed to know what kind of help she was accepting.
As Isabella reached the door, Khloe noticed something sticking out of her handbag.
Deep burgundy.
The hospital pouch.
“Marcus.”
He followed her gaze.
Isabella saw him see it.
Then moved.
Too late.
Marcus pulled the pouch free.
Inside were clinic records.
Not one report.
Seven.
May you like
And on top was a handwritten note from a fertility nurse who no longer worked at Lakeview.
Call me before they destroy the remaining file. There were two Bennett embryos, not one.
