“I made sure it didn’t happen.”

Those seven words echoed through the bedroom.

For a moment, I couldn’t move.

I stared at Matteo, waiting for him to laugh, to tell me I had misunderstood, to say something that would make the man standing before me recognizable again.

But he said nothing.

“What did you do?” I whispered.

Matteo loosened his tie.

“Natalie, don’t make this more difficult.”

“What did you do to me?”

His jaw tightened.

“Three years ago, I instructed the fertility clinic to stop using my samples.”

The room seemed to tilt.

I gripped the dresser.

“You told me the treatments weren’t working because of my body.”

“I know.”

“You watched me cry.”

“I know.”

“You let me believe I was the reason we couldn’t have children!”

His silence was unbearable.

I remembered the injections, the surgeries, the endless nights when I had stared at negative pregnancy tests.

And Matteo had known.

Every single time.

“Why?” I asked.

His answer came without hesitation.

“Because children would have complicated things.”

I looked at the divorce papers.

Then at the man I had loved for seven years.

“Complicated what?”

“My life.”

Something inside me went completely still.

For years, I had been afraid of losing him.

Now, for the first time, I realized I had already lost the man I thought he was.

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I reached into my handbag.

My fingers touched the ultrasound photograph.

For one terrible second, I wanted to throw it at him.

To show him the miracle he had tried to prevent.

But then I remembered something my mother once told me.

Never give someone the power to destroy what they don’t deserve to touch.

I closed my handbag.

“Fine,” I said.

Matteo blinked.

“What?”

“I’ll sign.”

He looked almost disappointed.

Perhaps he had expected tears.

Perhaps he wanted me to beg.

Instead, I walked to the dresser, picked up the pen, and signed my name.

Natalie Brooks.

Not Natalie DeLuca.

I slid the papers toward him.

“There’s one condition.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“You never contact me again.”

He studied my face.

Then nodded.

“Agreed.”

I walked past him.

At the bedroom door, he spoke again.

“The money is yours. All ninety million.”

I stopped.

“Keep your money.”

“Natalie—”

“I don’t want anything that reminds me of you.”

I left the mansion with one suitcase, my mother’s necklace, and a photograph of a heartbeat Matteo would never see.

Or so I believed.

Three hours later, I checked into a small hotel outside Chicago.

I sat on the edge of the bed and finally allowed myself to cry.

Then my phone rang.

Unknown number.

I almost ignored it.

But something made me answer.

“Mrs. Brooks?”

A woman’s voice.

“This is Dr. Evelyn Hart from the fertility clinic.”

I wiped my face.

“Yes?”

“Are you somewhere private?”

My stomach tightened.

“Why?”

There was a long silence.

Then she said something that made me sit upright.

“Your pregnancy wasn’t supposed to be possible.”

I looked down at my stomach.

“What are you talking about?”

“Your husband’s samples were withdrawn from treatment three years ago.”

“I know. He just admitted it.”

“That’s not the problem.”

I heard papers moving.

“The problem is that someone authorized a new procedure six weeks ago.”

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My breath caught.

“Who?”

“I can’t explain everything over the phone.”

“Doctor, please.”

Her voice lowered.

“Mrs. Brooks, the embryo transfer was approved using your husband’s genetic material.”

I stared at the wall.

“But he said—”

“I know what he said.”

Another pause.

“And there’s something else.”

I closed my eyes.

“What?”

“Your records show that two embryos were transferred.”

My hand flew to my stomach.

“Two?”

“Yes.”

I couldn’t speak.

“Mrs. Brooks, you may be carrying twins.”

For the first time that day, a strange warmth spread through my chest.

Twins.

After seven years.

Two tiny miracles.

But before I could respond, Dr. Hart spoke again.

“There’s one more reason I’m calling.”

Her voice trembled.

“Someone accessed your medical records twenty minutes ago.”

“Who?”

“The authorization came from your husband’s private office.”

My blood turned cold.

“Matteo?”

“No.”

I heard a door close on her end.

Then she whispered:

“The request was signed by Camille Russo.”

I froze.

Camille.

The woman sitting beside my husband that afternoon.

The woman he had chosen over me.

“Why would she want my medical records?”

Dr. Hart didn’t answer immediately.

When she finally spoke, her words were barely audible.

“Because, Mrs. Brooks, whoever arranged your pregnancy left instructions to notify her the moment it succeeded.”

And suddenly, I understood.

My husband’s betrayal was only the beginning.

Someone else had been planning my future.

And that person already knew about my babies.

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