Chapter 4 - THE WOMAN WHO BOUGHT MY CHILD
“YOU PAID FOR A BABY, HARPER! BUT YOU NEVER ASKED WHETHER THE WOMAN CARRYING THAT BABY HAD AGREED TO ANY OF IT!”
I spoke those words three days later during a video meeting arranged through our attorneys.
Harper Lawson sat in a sleek office overlooking Manhattan.
She was thirty-six, with long black hair, flawless makeup, and a cream-colored designer blazer that probably cost more than my monthly rent during college.
Her expression barely changed when I accused her.
Instead, she leaned back in her chair.
“Chloe, I understand this situation is emotional.”
I stared at her.
“Emotional?”
“You're carrying three babies. I'm sure the hormones and stress are overwhelming.”
I nearly laughed.
There it was again.
The same contempt hidden beneath polite words.
Harrison had called me unintelligent.
Dr. Voss had called me confused.
Now Harper was blaming my anger on pregnancy hormones.
I had spent years trying to become a mother.
Yet every person involved in this conspiracy seemed determined to treat me like a helpless child.
“Let's discuss the agreement,” Naomi interrupted.
Harper's attorney placed a document before the camera.
It included my name, my medical information, and a photograph showing a woman in a loose blue sweater sitting at a conference table.
The image was blurry.
But the woman had shoulder-length brown hair and a face that resembled mine.
My heart began racing.
“That's not me.”
Harper tilted her head.
“Really?”
“No.”
“She looks remarkably similar.”
“Looking similar doesn't make her me.”
Harper folded her hands.
“Chloe, I paid a substantial amount for a legitimate arrangement.”
“Then someone stole your money,” I replied. “Because I never agreed to be your surrogate.”
For the first time, her expression changed.
Only slightly.
But I noticed.
A tiny tightening around her mouth.
Naomi leaned forward.
“Ms. Lawson, who introduced you to the supposed gestational carrier?”
“Harrison.”
“And did you ever meet her without Harrison or Dr. Voss present?”
Harper hesitated.
“No.”
“Did you independently verify her identity?”
“My attorney handled the documentation.”
Naomi nodded.
“That's precisely what we need to investigate.”
Harper's expression hardened.
“I am not surrendering my child because of some clerical dispute.”
The words struck me like ice.
My child.
She had never experienced a single contraction.
Never spent a night wondering whether the babies would survive.
Never sat alone in a hospital room terrified of delivering too early.
But she spoke as though motherhood could be purchased and delivered with a receipt.
I leaned toward the camera.
“Harper, I don't know what you were promised. But I know what I was told. Those three babies were supposed to be mine. I never consented to what happened.”
She stared at me without answering.
Then the meeting ended.
That night, June sat beside my bed eating cold noodles from a takeout carton.
“You know what scares me most?” I asked.
She looked up.
“What?”
“That someone out there might actually believe Harper deserves to take one of these babies because she paid for the arrangement.”
June set down her fork.
“Chloe, the genetic connections may matter legally. We can't ignore that.”
“I know.”
“But what happened to you matters too.”
I looked down at my stomach.
One baby shifted beneath my ribs.
Another pressed firmly against my side.
I smiled despite everything.
“They're getting bigger.”
June reached toward my belly, then paused.
“Can I?”
I nodded.
She placed her palm against my dress.
A tiny movement answered her.
June's face softened.
“Oh, Chloe.”
I laughed through my tears.
“That's Baby B. He's always been impatient.”
She kept her hand there.
“Whatever happens, these babies have someone who loves them.”
I nodded.
But I knew love alone would not settle the legal questions awaiting us.
I needed evidence.
And I needed people willing to tell the truth.
Two days later, an unexpected visitor arrived at the hospital.
Her name was Madison Price.
She was thirty-four, with curly auburn hair, tired green eyes, and a face that looked as though she hadn't slept properly in weeks.
Unlike Harper, Madison came without a team of attorneys.
She carried a worn canvas bag and asked permission to speak with me.
Naomi joined us.
Madison sat across from my bed and twisted her fingers together.
“I don't know how to begin.”
I waited.
She took a shaky breath.
“I was born with a condition that prevented me from carrying a pregnancy. I've wanted children my entire adult life.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“My husband and I spent years saving for fertility treatment. When we finally had embryos, we started looking for a gestational carrier.”
I studied her carefully.
“And Harrison contacted you?”
She nodded.
“He said he worked with a fertility specialist who could help us find someone.”
“Did he tell you that someone was his wife?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
“He told us the carrier was a woman named Elena Grant.”
Naomi sat forward.
“Elena Grant?”
Madison nodded.
“She was supposedly thirty-one, healthy, and experienced with assisted reproduction.”
My stomach tightened.
“Did you meet her?”
“Only once.”
I stared at her.
“Where?”
“At Sterling Reproductive Center.”
She opened her bag and removed a folder.
Inside was a photograph.
The same blurry woman in the blue sweater.
I felt sick.
“That isn't me.”
Madison stared at the picture.
“Then who is she?”
“I don't know.”
Madison looked between Naomi and me.
Her face gradually lost its color.
“Oh my God.”
She covered her mouth.
“They gave me ultrasound updates. Harrison told us Elena wanted privacy, so we shouldn't contact her directly. I thought I was respecting her wishes.”
I watched her struggle to breathe.
“I thought everything was legal.”
For the first time since discovering Harrison's betrayal, I saw a person on the other side of the arrangement who appeared genuinely horrified by what had happened.
Madison wasn't smiling.
She wasn't demanding.
She was realizing that her greatest dream might have been built upon another woman's violation.
“Did you know he was using me?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“No. I swear to you, Chloe.”
Then she reached into her bag again.
“There's something else.”
She handed Naomi a copy of her agreement.
“I brought every document I have.”
Naomi began reviewing the pages.
Suddenly, she stopped.
“Madison, where did you get this attachment?”
“From Harrison.”
Naomi turned it toward me.
The document was labeled GESTATIONAL CARRIER PROFILE.
It contained medical details, personal history, and psychological information.
At first glance, it appeared to describe Elena Grant.
But the information was mine.
My allergies.
My medical history.
Even the details of a private counseling session I'd attended after my second failed IVF cycle.
A session I had never discussed with anyone outside the clinic.
Except Harrison.
Madison whispered:
“Chloe, I had no idea.”
I stared at the document.
My husband hadn't merely stolen my pregnancy.
May you like
He had taken the most private details of my life and used them to construct a fictional woman.
And somewhere in New York, a stranger had apparently sat in a fertility clinic pretending to be me.
