Chapter 3 - The Missing Embryos
The silence in the dining room was deafening.
I sank back into my chair, my mind racing through years of medical appointments, needles, and shattered hopes.
"The clinic," Eric whispered, his voice trembling with a mixture of rage and realization.
Two years ago, before my natural pregnancy ended in tragedy, we had undergone IVF.
We had frozen three healthy embryos at the Pacific Fertility Center in Los Angeles.
"They told us they were secure," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "They told us they were in deep freeze until we were ready."
"Someone took them," Eric said, his jaw clenching. "Someone took our child and put her in a surrogate."
"But who?" I asked, looking at Detective Miller. "And why bring her back to us now?"
"That's what we are going to find out," Miller said, standing up. "I'm getting a warrant for the clinic's records."
"You won't need a warrant," Eric growled, pulling his phone from his pocket. "I own a twenty percent stake in their parent company."
Within an hour, we were in the back of Eric's town car, speeding north on the I-5 toward Los Angeles.
The tension between us had shifted; the suspicion was gone, replaced by a unified, terrifying desperation.
"I'm sorry I doubted you," I said softly, looking out the tinted window.
Eric reached across the leather seat and took my hand.
"You had every right to," he replied. "But we are going to burn that clinic to the ground if they let this happen."
We arrived at the towering glass building in Beverly Hills just before noon.
Dr. Aris Thorne, the clinic director, was waiting for us in his opulent office, sweating through his expensive suit.
"Mr. Whitaker, Mrs. Whitaker, I assure you we are launching a full internal investigation," Thorne babbled as we walked in.
"Cut the crap, Aris," Eric snapped, slamming his palms on the glass desk. "Show me the logs."
Thorne flinched. "The system shows an authorized transfer was made ten months ago."
"Authorized by whom?" I demanded.
Thorne turned his monitor around. "By you, Mrs. Whitaker. We have your signature and a copy of your ID on file."
I stared at the screen.
It was a perfect forgery of my signature, attached to a digital authorization form.
"I was in London ten months ago for a merger," I said coldly. "I can prove it with my passport stamps."
Thorne swallowed hard. "The transfer was handled by a courier. A private medical transport."
"Who requested the courier?" Eric asked.
Thorne pulled up another file, his hands shaking.
"An assistant," Thorne said. "A woman named Maya Vance."
My blood ran cold.
Maya.
May you like
My former personal assistant.
The woman who had managed my life, my passwords, and my schedules for three years, before vanishing without a trace right after my miscarriage.
