Dana found him before sunset.
His name was Adrian Mercer.
Thirty-four years old.
Born Adrian Cole Mercer.
Mother: Evelyn Mercer.
Father: blank on the public birth record.
At age six, his surname remained Mercer after his mother married another man.
No public Sterling connection.
No photographs beside Richard at charity events.
No mention in company histories.
Nothing.
Except the sealed paternity case.
And one line in an archived financial filing showing Sterling Family Holdings had made annual payments to an education trust established for A.C.M.
I stared at the information Dana emailed me.
Richard had paid for Adrian's schooling.
Secretly.
For decades.
“Where is he now?”
“California.”
“What does he do?”
“He's a biomedical engineer.”
“That doesn't sound accidental anymore.”
“There is more.”
Of course there was.
“What?”
“He worked in reproductive laboratory equipment.”
I went still.
“Where?”
“Several places.”
“Oakfield?”
“Not directly.”
The tiny relief vanished when Dana continued.
“But one of his employers serviced Oakfield's lab systems during the year of your IVF cycle.”
I closed my eyes.
“No.”
“We do not know whether Adrian was personally assigned there.”
“Find out.”
“Already doing it.”
“Does he know Richard is his father?”
“Unknown.”
“Does Richard know where he is?”
“Almost certainly.”
“Carter?”
“We haven't told him.”
“Good.”
I got up and walked to the kitchen.
Rachel had ordered pizza because none of us had enough attention left for cooking.
The girls were upstairs building what Emma described as “a city for rabbits.”
Rachel handed me a glass of water.
“You found him.”
I nodded.
“Richard's other son?”
“Yes.”
“Could he be the biological father?”
“Possibly.”
“Does he know?”
“I don't know.”
“Could Richard have arranged it without him knowing?”
That question stopped me.
Sperm could be stored.
Samples could be repurposed.
Records could be falsified.
If Oakfield's controls had been as weak as everything else suggested, Adrian might have been used too.
“He may be another victim,” I said.
Rachel nodded slowly.
“Important to remember.”
She was right.
I wanted a person to blame because a person was easier than a system of betrayals.
Adrian's DNA might be involved.
That did not mean Adrian had consented.
My phone rang.
Carter.
I answered.
“I found Vale.”
“What do you mean?”
“Dad has a correspondence file.”
“With Dr. Vale?”
“Yes.”
“What does it say?”
“It's encrypted.”
“Of course it is.”
“I have our IT person working on it.”
I stiffened.
“Your IT person?”
“Someone I trust.”
“Does your father know?”
“No.”
“Carter, be careful who you trust.”
“I've learned that recently.”
There was no sarcasm in his voice.
“What else?”
“I found an old visitor log.”
“For where?”
“Sterling headquarters.”
He paused.
“Dr. Vale met with Dad four times during the year after Emma was born.”
That matched the testing period.
“Anyone else?”
“One name I don't recognize.”
“Read it.”
“Adrian Mercer.”
The room seemed to shift.
I gripped the counter.
“When?”
“Three meetings.”
“Same period?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know him?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Lauren, I would remember.”
Maybe.
But Carter had spent much of his life not seeing people who mattered.
“Why would Richard meet Adrian?”
“I don't know.”
“Your half brother.”
Silence.
I had not intended to tell him that way.
“What did you say?”
I closed my eyes.
“Dana found a sealed paternity case.”
“Against my father?”
“Yes.”
“Evelyn Mercer.”
Another silence.
“You know that name.”
“My grandmother hated that name.”
I froze.
“What?”
“Once, when I was maybe fifteen, she and Dad had a screaming fight. I heard her say Evelyn.”
“What else?”
“I don't remember.”
“Try.”
“I remember Dad saying, ‘I handled it.’”
My skin prickled.
“Handled what?”
“I don't know.”
“Carter.”
“I was fifteen.”
Fair.
“Did your mother know?”
“Maybe.”
“Ask her.”
“She's barely speaking to me.”
“Ask anyway.”
“What does Adrian have to do with the embryos?”
“I don't know yet.”
“You think—”
“Do not speculate to anyone.”
“You think he might be the donor.”
“I said don't speculate.”
Carter became quiet.
“Right.”
“Send the visitor log to Dana.”
“I will.”
“Anything else?”
“One thing.”
“What?”
“Dad's file has a label.”
“What label?”
“Continuity Project.”
I stared at the wall.
The phrase was so coldly corporate it made my stomach turn.
“What does that mean?”
“I don't know.”
“Where did you find it?”
“On an archive box.”
“What's inside?”
“Medical invoices, trust drafts, Vale correspondence, Oakfield materials.”
“All under Continuity Project?”
“Yes.”
I whispered, “Jesus.”
Richard had given it a project name.
Not family.
Not children.
Continuity.
“Photograph everything before your father realizes.”
“I'm doing it.”
We ended the call.
Twenty minutes later, my phone rang again.
Margaret.
I almost ignored it.
Then I thought of Evelyn's name.
I answered.
“Lauren.”
Margaret sounded exhausted.
“What do you want?”
“To talk.”
“About what?”
“Carter called me.”
Of course.
“He asked about Evelyn Mercer.”
I waited.
“You know who she was.”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
Margaret was silent.
“Richard's mistress?”
“For a time.”
“And Adrian?”
“His son.”
There it was.
No legal caveat.
No uncertainty.
A family truth hidden everywhere except inside the family.
“Did Carter know?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Richard forbade it.”
“You obeyed.”
“I was twenty-seven and pregnant with Carter when I learned about Evelyn.”
I frowned.
“Pregnant?”
“Yes.”
The dates did not fit my assumption.
Adrian was younger than Carter.
“Then Evelyn came later.”
“Yes.”
“So Richard had an affair after Carter was born.”
“Yes.”
“Did you leave him?”
“No.”
Her voice became defensive.
“It was different then.”
“No, Margaret. It wasn't.”
She did not argue.
“What happened to Adrian?”
“Richard provided for him.”
“Secretly.”
“Yes.”
“Did he see him?”
“Occasionally.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Did Carter?”
“No.”
I walked toward the window.
“Did you know Adrian met Richard after Emma was born?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
My grip tightened.
“Why?”
“I don't know exactly.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I knew Richard was dealing with a medical concern.”
“What concern?”
“He said there was a question about Carter's fertility records.”
“Whose question?”
“He didn't say.”
“Did you know embryos were tested?”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
Everyone knew pieces.
No one told me.
“Did you know the embryos weren't genetically Carter's?”
Margaret inhaled sharply.
There.
Recognition.
“You knew.”
“No.”
“You reacted.”
“Because that's an absurd thing to say.”
“Margaret.”
She remained silent.
“Did Richard tell you donor sperm had been used?”
“No.”
“Did you ever hear Adrian's name connected to Oakfield?”
Another pause.
Too long.
“What?”
“Once.”
I stopped pacing.
“When?”
“Richard said Adrian had helped solve a problem.”
My skin went cold.
“What problem?”
“He didn't explain.”
“When did he say that?”
“Years ago.”
“Before Chloe was born?”
“I don't remember.”
“Try.”
“I think it was around the time you and Carter were having trouble conceiving.”
My mouth went dry.
“What exactly did Richard say?”
“He said there were alternatives Carter didn't need to know about.”
I gripped the windowsill.
“Alternatives.”
“Yes.”
“Did you ask what he meant?”
“I thought he meant fertility treatment.”
“We were already in fertility treatment.”
“I know that now.”
“Margaret, did Richard believe Carter was infertile?”
Silence.
Then:
“Yes.”
The word barely existed.
“What?”
“He had seen some test results.”
“What test results?”
“Carter's.”
“From where?”
“I don't know.”
“Before IVF?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't Carter know?”
“I thought he did.”
“No.”
“I assumed—”
“You people survive on assumptions when the truth would inconvenience you.”
She began crying softly.
I felt no satisfaction.
“What did the tests show?”
“I don't know details. Richard said Carter's chances of biological fatherhood were extremely low.”
My knees weakened.
“Did Richard tell Oakfield?”
“I don't know.”
“Did he arrange donor sperm?”
“I don't know.”
“Did he arrange Adrian?”
“Lauren, I don't know.”
For once, I believed her.
Not because Margaret was trustworthy.
Because fear had stripped her voice of calculation.
“Why would Richard use Adrian?”
“He was Sterling blood.”
There it was.
The family logic.
If Carter could not biologically father a child, Richard could preserve his lineage by using another son.
Never mind consent.
Never mind truth.
Never mind me.
Or Carter.
Or Adrian.
“Did Richard care whether I knew?”
Margaret started crying harder.
That was answer enough.
I ended the call.
Dana was already trying to obtain Carter's fertility records.
She called at 7:10.
“We found something.”
“What?”
“A pre-IVF semen analysis.”
“Carter's?”
“Yes.”
“Result?”
“Severely impaired fertility.”
I closed my eyes.
“Sterile?”
“Not necessarily. But natural conception would have been unlikely, and IVF success may have been limited.”
“Did Oakfield know?”
“Yes.”
“Did I know?”
“The counseling form in your file states both partners were informed.”
“I was never told that.”
“We'll compare signatures.”
My stomach dropped.
“Another forged form.”
“Possibly.”
“How many times did people sign my name?”
“We're documenting every instance.”
I laughed bitterly.
“My marriage apparently involved a fictional version of me who agreed to everything.”
Dana didn't respond to that.
“What about Adrian?”
“We confirmed he worked for a company servicing Oakfield.”
“Was he there?”
“Yes.”
My breath stopped.
“When?”
“Twice during your treatment cycle.”
“Doing what?”
“Equipment calibration.”
“Could he access samples?”
“Normally, no.”
“Normally has become meaningless.”
“I agree.”
“Did he provide a sperm sample?”
“We don't know.”
“Would there be a donor record?”
“If formal.”
“And if Richard arranged it privately?”
“Maybe not.”
I sat.
“Has anyone contacted Adrian?”
“We're preparing to.”
“Don't accuse him.”
“We won't.”
“He may not know.”
“I agree.”
That evening, Carter sent me photographs from the Continuity Project files.
Most were ordinary invoices.
Trust drafts.
Legal memos.
Then one image loaded slowly.
An Oakfield laboratory sheet.
At the top was my patient number.
Below it were four embryo identifiers.
The same four I remembered.
Beside the paternal specimen field was not Carter's patient number.
It was a handwritten code.
AM-042.
Adrian Mercer.
I stared until my eyes hurt.
Then I saw another notation below it.
AUTHORIZED SUBSTITUTE — R.H.S.
Richard had not merely discovered the truth after Emma was born.
He had ordered it before any of my children existed.
I forwarded the image to Dana.
A minute later, she called.
“Where did Carter get this?”
“His father's archive.”
“Do not alter the image.”
“I won't.”
“We need the physical original.”
“Carter can preserve it.”
“I'll contact him.”
“Dana.”
“Yes?”
“Look at the date.”
She went quiet.
The authorization had been signed four days before my egg retrieval.
Before fertilization.
Before anyone could claim a spontaneous laboratory mistake.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“I think Richard decided who would father my children without telling me.”
Dana did not answer.
Because there was nothing useful to say.
Then I noticed one more line near the bottom.
A signature block.
Not mine.
Not Carter's.
Not Richard's.
Dr. Vale.
And beside his name, a second handwritten phrase:
Donor informed — limited consent.
I stared at it.
Adrian may have known he was donating.
But limited consent could mean many things.
For research.
For fertility treatment.
For anonymous use.
Not necessarily for his half brother's wife.
Not necessarily for children Richard intended to control.
And if Adrian had consented to something different, Richard may have lied to him too.
Click here to continue reading: PART 11: Adrian Finally Answered Dana’s Call, and What Richard Had Told Him About the Donation Turned Another Suspect Into a Witness
Five Minutes After the Judge Ended Our Marriage, Carter Told Me Exactly What Our Daughters Were Worth to Him
Part 10 of 35
