Chapter 7 - THE DAUGHTER I NEVER KNEW EXISTEDNatalie Price lived in Savannah.
She was thirty-eight.
A photographer.
Divorced.
One daughter.
No public connection to Grant Mercer.
Rachel found the marriage record.
Grant and Natalie had married when they were twenty-four.
The marriage lasted eleven months.
It had been annulled.
Grant told me he had never been married.
Another lie.
By this point, lies no longer surprised me.
Their scale did.
The FBI contacted Natalie before I was allowed to.
She had no idea the embryo transferred to her had been mine.
Her story was almost as twisted as mine.
After the annulment, Natalie and Grant remained sporadically in contact.
Years later, she learned cancer treatment might leave her infertile.
She froze eggs but they failed.
Grant reappeared.
He told her he had an embryo from a prior IVF cycle that would otherwise be destroyed.
He claimed it had been created from an anonymous donor egg and his sperm.
He offered it to her.
Natalie wanted a child desperately.
She agreed.
Except the embryo was mine and Grant’s.
Our biological child.
Her daughter’s name was Sophie.
When Rachel told me the DNA test confirmed it, I walked outside and vomited in my flower bed.
Then I sat on the back steps for twenty minutes staring at nothing.
I had a daughter.
A baby girl I had never carried.
Never named.
Never held.
She had another mother.
A mother who loved her.
The emotions were unbearable because none canceled the others.
I was furious.
Grieving.
Curious.
Protective.
And terrified that pursuing my rights might destroy an innocent woman.
Rachel sat beside me.
“We need to discuss options.”
“I don’t want to take Sophie away from Natalie.”
“That matters.”
“But she’s my biological child.”
“Yes.”
“What rights do I have?”
“This is unprecedented enough that anyone promising certainty is lying.”
I laughed bitterly.
“I’ve had enough of those.”
Natalie eventually called me.
I almost didn’t answer.
Then I did.
Neither of us spoke for several seconds.
Finally she said, “I’m sorry.”
Everyone kept apologizing for crimes other people committed.
“You didn’t know.”
“I should have asked more questions.”
“So should I.”
“That’s different.”
“No. It isn’t.”
Sophie babbled somewhere in the background.
My chest ached.
Natalie heard the change in my breathing.
“She has your eyes.”
I covered my mouth.
“She does?”
“Brown with gold around the center.”
Like mine.
“Can you send me a picture?”
Natalie hesitated.
Then said, “Yes.”
The image arrived one minute later.
A chubby baby in yellow pajamas.
Dark curls.
My eyes.
Grant’s chin.
I cried harder than I had since the staircase.
Not because I wanted to take her.
Because I recognized her.
Something ancient inside me recognized her.
Natalie and I agreed to meet.
No lawyers at first.
Just us.
We chose a quiet rented house halfway between Charlotte and Savannah.
Rachel hated the idea.
Police screened the location anyway.
Natalie arrived carrying Sophie.
When the door opened, neither of us knew what to do.
Then Sophie saw me.
She smiled.
Babies smile at strangers all the time.
I knew that.
It still broke me.
Natalie handed her over.
“You can hold her.”
My arms shook.
Sophie stared at me.
Then grabbed my necklace.
Exactly like Emma did.
I laughed through tears.
“Hi.”
She squealed.
“I’m Claire.”
I couldn’t call myself Mommy.
That belonged to Natalie.
At least then.
We spent five hours together.
Natalie told me about Sophie’s birth.
Her first tooth.
The rash she got from strawberries.
The way she clapped whenever music played.
I told Natalie about Emma and James.
Then I told her what Grant had done.
All of it.
She became pale.
“He knew?”
“Yes.”
“He gave me your embryo knowing you hadn’t consented?”
“Yes.”
“I’m going to kill him.”
For the first time all day, I laughed.
“Get in line.”
We decided not to fight each other.
Grant had already taken enough.
Our lawyers created an interim agreement.
Natalie remained Sophie’s legal and custodial mother.
I was recognized as biological mother in sealed court findings.
We began building a relationship slowly.
No dramatic custody war.
No child used as a trophy.
Grant hated that.
His attorneys had apparently hoped Natalie and I would turn on each other.
Instead, Natalie agreed to testify.
That mattered.
Because Grant’s criminal trial was approaching.
Prosecutors combined multiple charges:
Conspiracy.
Reproductive fraud.
Attempted murder.
Obstruction.
And accessory charges related to Emily’s death.
Vanessa entered a plea agreement first.
That shocked everyone.
She agreed to testify against Grant and Keller in exchange for prosecutors removing a first-degree attempted murder enhancement.
I didn’t want the deal.
Ortiz explained why they needed it.
Vanessa could establish planning.
She knew about the trust.
She knew Grant had discussed my death.
She knew about Emily.
“What did she know about Emily?”
Ortiz hesitated.
“Enough.”
At a pretrial hearing, I saw Vanessa for the first time since the staircase.
Orange jail uniform.
No makeup.
Her face looked thinner.
She turned when I entered.
Our eyes met.
She looked away first.
Grant entered ten minutes later wearing a navy suit.
He looked almost exactly as he had during our marriage.
Controlled.
Handsome.
Expensive.
Only the ankle monitor visible below his trouser cuff reminded everyone that he was under house arrest pending trial after his family posted an enormous bond.
He looked at me.
Then at Emma’s carrier beside Rachel.
His expression cracked.
For half a second, I saw longing.
Maybe even love.
That disturbed me more than hatred would have.
Because monsters are easier when they feel nothing.
Grant felt things.
He simply believed his feelings mattered more than everyone else’s rights.
His attorney approached Rachel during recess.
“My client would like to discuss a global settlement.”
Rachel laughed.
“What does he think this is? A parking dispute?”
“He’s prepared to waive all custodial claims concerning the twins.”
I turned.
“In exchange for what?”
The attorney looked at me.
“Your cooperation concerning certain financial matters.”
“Which means?”
“Grant’s trust.”
Of course.
He wanted me to remain legally married until his fortieth birthday.
Rachel stared at him.
“Your client wants the woman he tried to kill to preserve his inheritance?”
“He disputes that characterization.”
“I don’t.”
The attorney continued.
“In exchange, Mrs. Mercer receives thirty million dollars and uncontested custody.”
I stepped closer.
“Tell Grant something for me.”
Rachel started to intervene.
I raised a hand.
“Tell him I’m not for sale.”
The attorney nodded stiffly.
“And tell him something else.”
“What?”
“I filed for annulment based on fraud this morning.”
For the first time, Grant’s lawyer looked unsettled.
Good.
Grant’s trust deadline was six weeks away.
If the marriage was voided before then, his inheritance could collapse.
I wasn’t doing it for money.
I was doing it because every dollar he expected had been built on turning women into objects.
Three weeks later, the civil judge granted expedited proceedings because of the criminal allegations.
Grant fought it.
He lost.
Our marriage was declared voidable due to material fraud and lack of informed consent surrounding reproductive decisions.
Legally, it ended before Grant turned forty.
The trust’s special distribution provision failed.
More than one hundred million dollars shifted to a charitable remainder structure established by his grandfather.
Grant received a fraction of what he expected.
When he heard the ruling, he stared at me across the courtroom.
“You ruined my life.”
I almost answered.
Then I realized there was nothing to say.
I simply looked at him.
He had pushed every domino himself.
That evening, I returned home.
Emma slept upstairs.
James was with my mother.
Natalie had sent another video of Sophie laughing in her high chair.
For the first time, I thought maybe the worst was behind me.
Then Detective Ortiz called.
“Claire.”
Her voice was tense.
“What happened?”
“Grant missed his court-ordered check-in.”
My blood went cold.
“What does that mean?”
“His ankle monitor was cut off thirty minutes ago.”
I stood.
“Where is he?”
“We don’t know.”
Then the alarm system beeped.
Back door.
Open.
I turned slowly toward the kitchen.
Ortiz was still speaking.
“Claire?”
A shadow moved beyond the hallway.
“Ortiz.”
May you like
“Yes?”
“He’s here.”
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