Not My Fault

I'm staring at a document that just erased the last thread of my sanity.

I've pinched myself so many times that my skin has turned bright pink. Yet...I haven't woken up from this nightmare that seems to be my life and reality.

Dr. Carter sits across from me, his hands folded over a tan folder, looking everywhere but at my face.

"Can...can you repeat yourself?" I ask the doctor, hoping that I misheard him the first time. Because this can't be real. This can't be real.

"I'm sorry, Miss Emily," he says. His voice is small, lacking the professional confidence he usually carries. "There was a clerical error in the lab. A mislabeling during the cryopreservation retrieval."

"What...what does that mean?"

He adjusts in his seat. "The embryo we implanted... it wasn't created with Julian Thorne's samples. The sperm used belonged to another donor."

I wrap my arms around my middle, feeling the slight curve of my belly through the thin fabric of my floral dress. This child is my anchor. Since Julian's car spun out on that rain-slicked highway a month ago, this pregnancy has been the only thing keeping me from sinking. The doctors said Julian might never wake up from the coma, and his parents begged me to use the samples he'd frozen before we even got engaged. They wanted a piece of him to live on. I wanted it more.

"No," I say, shaking my head slowly. My voice is so calm it surprises me. "No, that's not right. We... we used Julian's sample. That's what we agreed on. That's what I signed for."

"Miss Emily-"

"I went through weeks of treatment," I snap, and the calm in my voice is gone. "Hormones. Injections. Blood tests. You told me everything was fine. You told me this would work."

"It did work," he says gently. "You are pregnant." Then his voice reduces. "But the biological father is not Julian Thorne."

A tear rolls down my cheek before I can stop it, and I angrily swat it away.

"That's not my child," I say confidently, as if my confidence can erase the truth.

"It is your child," he says. "Genetically, you are the mother."

I glare at him for a few seconds and then I laugh. It's a bitter, humorless sound. "It's not my child with my fiancé. I wanted a baby with the man I love. The man I'm going to marry. I did everything right. I followed every step. I trusted you."

"I understand how difficult this is-"

"No, you don't!" I yell, banging my shaking hands against the table. "You don't understand what this means."

Because Julian might never wake up. Because this child was supposed to be the only piece of him I'd have left. Because I built my entire future around this one thing.

"I'm sorry."

"You're sorry?" I scoff. "You didn't lose my luggage, Doctor. You lost the last living piece of my fiancé. Julian is in a coma. He might never wake up, and you've filled me with-with what? Some random guy's DNA?"

The irony is a jagged pill in my throat. I spent six weeks pumping myself full of hormones, bruising my thighs with needles.

"I want it out," I say calmly. "Terminate the pregnancy. We'll redo the cycle. I'm not carrying a 'coding error' to term."

"Miss Emily. The hospital board is prepared to offer you a settlement of one million dollars," Dr. Carter continues quickly, his face pale. "Along with a full refund and the best prenatal care money can buy, provided you sign a non-disclosure agreement."

I stand up so fast my chair screeches against the linoleum. One million dollars. They want to pay me off for a stranger's child. I look at the framed degrees on his wall, the anatomical charts, the little plastic models of life, and I feel a wave of heat wash over my neck. My skin feels too tight for my body.

"One million dollars?" I whisper. Another tear slides down my face and that chilling calm returns. I am slipping between calm and rage, and I have no way of controlling it.

"I... I don't want your money," I say. "I want this," I point to my belly. "Gone."

His expression tightens. "I'm afraid that may not be advisable-"

"I don't care. Get. Rid. Of. It."

"That would be a mistake."

The voice is like a low vibration, commanding and cold. I spin around to see a man standing by the doorframe. He is tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing an expensive-looking charcoal suit. His eyes are a piercing, unforgiving grey, and they are fixed directly on me.

Dr. Carter stands up so fast he nearly trips. "Mr. Wolfe. I didn't realize you were on the premises."

"I tend to move quickly when my assets are mishandled, Doctor," the man says. He steps into the room, and the space suddenly feels half its size. He doesn't look at the doctor; he looks at me, scanning me with a clinical, predatory intensity.

His presence is so intense and intimidating that I almost feel the need to step back. But I don't. I struggle with every bone in my body to maintain my composure.

Mr. Intimidating reaches into his pocket and pulls out a thick, matte-black business card onto the desk. Alistair Wolfe. CEO, Wolfe Industries.

My lips part slightly. This is the man who has effectively automated half the logistics firms in the country. He is the "Ghost of Wall Street."

"I am the biological father of the child you're carrying," Alistair says. His tone isn't apologetic; it is a statement of fact. "And I have no intention of letting you terminate. Carry the pregnancy to term. Hand the child over to me the moment it's born, and I will deposit one hundred million dollars into an account of your choosing."

I take a step back until my calves hit the guest chair. I stare at him, my breath hitching. My calm changes to that hot feeling in my chest and I clench my fists. "You're insane."

Dr. Carter's eyes widen and Mr. Intimidating frowns. "What?"

"You're insane," I repeat. "My fiancé is lying in the hospital in a coma and you think you can pay me to have your baby and not his?"

"Two hundred mi-"

"I don't care about your money!" I snap. "I want my life back. I want my fiancé's child."

Alistair's expression doesn't soften. If anything, it turns to stone. "Money buys time, Ms. Vance. And right now, you're out of it."

"What does that mean?"

He signals to Dr. Carter, who hands me another report from his table. "Your latest screenings came back this morning. Your uterine lining is... it's significantly thinner than we anticipated. The hormonal stress of this IVF cycle has caused severe scarring."

He pauses, looking at Alistair, then back to me. "If you terminate this pregnancy, the damage will be irreversible. The likelihood of a successful second implantation is virtually zero. You would be permanently infertile."

My head spins, and I feel like I'm going to pass out. "That...that's not true. You can give me some kind of injection. You can perform a surgery."

"Those aren't feasible options Miss Emily."

The dream of a house with a tire swing, of a little boy with Julian's messy blonde hair, it all starts to evaporate like mist. If I end this, I end everything. I will never be a mother. Not with Julian's child. Not with any child.

"Think about it," Alistair says, his voice dropping to a silken thread. "You keep the child. You fulfill your biological potential. You get a fortune that ensures you never have to work a day in your life. And then you can have another child with your fiancé. All I ask is for-"

He pauses when he sees fresh tears gather in my eyes. Something softens in his expression, but it lasts just one second.

"What's mine," he completes.

The dizziness worsens and now I can't breathe. It's too much information. I need to see Julian. I need to touch his hand and tell him I am sorry I've failed him.

As if the universe read my mind, my phone on the table begins to vibrate. I lunge for it the second I see Julian's mother's name on the screen.

"Emily!" she sobs the moment I answer. "Emily, come to the hospital. Now! Julian...he opened his eyes. He's awake!"

I don't say a word to Alistair Wolfe. I don't even look at him. I run. I sprint through the hospital corridors. My heart is a drum, beating out a single word: Julian. Julian. Julian.

I reach the Intensive Care unit, my lungs burning. I slow down as I approach Room 402, my hand trembling as I reach for the handle. I want to burst in, to throw my arms around him, to tell him that we will figure out the mess with the baby together.

But the door is cracked open an inch. And from inside, I don't hear the beep of monitors or the steady breathing of a recovering patient. I hear a muffled, familiar sob.