Part 2
Ashley Bennett stepped out of the black SUV like she owned the ground beneath her feet.
The Georgia evening had begun to cool, but the air around us felt suddenly airless. Gravel crunched beneath her heels. Her cream-colored suit looked untouched by the dust, her hair perfectly pinned, her lipstick flawless. She carried herself with that same polished confidence I had once mistaken for strength.
Behind her stood two men in dark suits, each holding leather folders.
Attorneys.
Emily tightened her arms around the twins.
I stepped slightly in front of her without thinking.
Ashley noticed.
A slow smile curved across her face.
“How touching,” she said. “The reunion.”
My hands curled into fists. “What are you doing here?”
She glanced toward Emily, then back at me. “Protecting my interests.”
“Your interests?” I repeated. “You destroyed my marriage.”
Her smile didn’t fade.
“No, Michael. You destroyed your marriage. I only showed you what you were already willing to believe.”
The words hit harder than I wanted them to.
Because somewhere beneath my anger, I knew there was truth in that.
I had believed too quickly.
I had listened too easily.
I had looked at the woman I loved and chosen suspicion before I chose her.
Emily shifted behind me. One of the babies whimpered softly against her shoulder.
Ashley’s eyes flicked toward them.
For one brief second, something cold passed across her face.
Not guilt.
Not regret.
Possession.
One attorney stepped forward.
“Mr. Carter,” he said, “my name is Grant Wilkes. I represent Ms. Bennett.”
“I don’t care who you represent.”
“You should,” he replied calmly. “We’re here regarding potential legal action involving fraud, defamation, breach of contract, and parental rights.”
I stared at him.
Parental rights?
Emily’s voice came from behind me, quiet but sharp.
“What does that mean?”
Ashley’s smile widened.
“It means, Emily, that you made a very serious mistake.”
Emily’s face tightened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, I think you do.”
Ashley opened her handbag and pulled out a folded document. She handed it to the attorney, who passed it to me.
I didn’t want to take it.
But I did.
The page trembled in my hand as I unfolded it.
It was a copy of a medical form.
At first, I didn’t understand what I was looking at.
Then my eyes caught the phrase near the center of the page.
Fertility treatment authorization.
My blood ran cold.
Emily inhaled sharply beside me.
Ashley watched us both with satisfaction.
“During your marriage,” she said, “Emily underwent fertility treatment at a private clinic in Atlanta.”
I turned toward Emily.
Her face had gone pale.
“I was going to tell you,” she whispered.
“When?” Ashley asked sweetly. “Before or after you conveniently became pregnant while separated?”
Emily’s eyes filled with tears, but her voice steadied.
“We tried for years, Michael. You know that.”
I did.
God help me, I did.
For three years, Emily and I had tried to have children. Tests. Appointments. Hope. Disappointment. Quiet nights where she cried in the bathroom and told me she was fine when I knew she wasn’t.
“I went to the clinic after we separated,” Emily said. “I didn’t know what else to do. Everything was falling apart. I thought maybe… maybe if I could still have part of the dream we wanted…”
Her voice broke.
I looked down at the form again.
My signature was there.
At the bottom.
Beside Emily’s.
But I had never signed it.
I had never seen it.
“This is fake,” I said.
Ashley tilted her head. “Is it?”
“Yes.”
Her attorney cleared his throat. “Mr. Carter, according to clinic records, you consented to embryo storage and future implantation. There are also documents indicating that embryos created during your marriage were transferred after your divorce filing.”
My mind spun.
Embryos.
Treatment.
Consent.
Twins.
Emily stared at me with horror growing in her eyes.
“I didn’t forge anything,” she said quickly. “Michael, I swear to you. The clinic told me all the paperwork was already completed from before.”
“Of course they did,” Ashley said.
I turned on her. “What did you do?”
Ashley’s expression didn’t change.
“Careful,” her lawyer warned. “Accusations without evidence may complicate matters.”
I laughed once, bitterly. “Evidence? I have enough evidence to bury her.”
“Do you?” Ashley asked.
That stopped me.
She took one slow step closer.
“You have documents from a private investigator. You have theories. Copies. Hearsay. Records that may or may not be admissible. But what I have is simple.”
She pointed at the babies.
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