Kenneth did not let me confront Connor.
He did something much worse.
He made Connor answer questions under oath.
The emergency discovery conference happened two days later because the disputed assets from our divorce gave Kenneth a legitimate path into the financial records.
Connor arrived with a new attorney.
His old divorce lawyer was nowhere to be seen.
That alone told me something had changed.
Connor sat across the conference table wearing a navy suit I remembered buying with him before his promotion. He looked older than he had at the hospital.
He did not look at me.
His attorney did.
“Dr. Sinclair’s presence is unnecessary.”
Kenneth answered before I could.
“She is the party whose marital assets were concealed.”
“We dispute that characterization.”
“Then producing the records should be painless.”
Connor finally looked up.
“Kirsten, this has gone far enough.”
Kenneth turned toward him.
“You’ll address questions through counsel.”
Connor’s attorney touched his sleeve.
For the first time in our marriage or divorce, someone else was telling Connor when he could speak.
I expected satisfaction.
Instead I felt tired.
The first hour concerned money.
Accounts.
Transfers.
Property valuations.
Investment statements Connor had failed to disclose.
The numbers were worse than I had expected.
More than seven hundred thousand dollars had moved through accounts I had never known existed.
Some of the money predated our separation.
Some predated the affair I knew about.
Then Kenneth reached Westbridge.
“Mr. Fleming, did you receive treatment at Westbridge Reproductive Medicine?”
Connor’s attorney objected.
Kenneth remained calm.
“The payments came from marital funds.”
The objection dissolved.
Connor swallowed.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Several times.”
“Beginning?”
He stared at the tabletop.
“May.”
May.
Before Noah’s likely conception.
Before Connor claimed our marriage was merely struggling.
Before Melinda had supposedly become anything more than my friend.
“May of which year?”
Connor gave the year.
My fingernails pressed into my palm.
“Was Dr. Sinclair aware of these appointments?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I wanted another opinion.”
“Another opinion about what?”
“My fertility.”
Kenneth opened a folder.
“Specifically your diagnosis of severe male-factor infertility?”
Connor looked toward his attorney.
“You may answer.”
“Yes.”
The word was barely audible.
Kenneth did not react.
“Did Westbridge confirm the diagnosis?”
“Yes.”
“Did they tell you natural conception was impossible?”
“No.”
“Highly unlikely?”
Connor hesitated.
“Yes.”
I remembered the hospital.
His smirk.
His one-year-old son.
Proof.
That was what he had wanted Noah to be.
Kenneth continued.
“Was Melinda Travis present at any Westbridge appointment?”
Connor’s face changed.
His attorney interrupted.
“We need a break.”
“No,” Connor said.
The attorney stared at him.
Connor looked at me.
“Yes.”
The room went still.
“How many?”
“I don’t remember.”
Kenneth opened another page.
“Was she present June 19?”
“Yes.”
“In what capacity?”
Connor’s jaw moved.
“Support.”
“For you?”
“Yes.”
Kenneth waited.
Connor shifted.
“And?”
“For a procedure.”
My heartbeat became audible in my ears.
“What procedure?”
Connor’s attorney objected again.
Kenneth pushed the financial authorization across the table.
“This document lists Mr. Fleming as responsible party and Ms. Travis as patient participant.”
Connor closed his eyes.
“We were considering options.”
“What options?”
“Having a child.”
I did not move.
Kenneth’s voice remained perfectly level.
“You were still married to Dr. Sinclair.”
“We were separated emotionally.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“No.”
“You were legally married.”
“Yes.”
“Living in the same residence?”
“Yes.”
“Attending marriage counseling?”
Connor stared at him.
“Yes.”
“Attempting fertility treatment with your wife?”
“No.”
I nearly spoke.
Kenneth glanced at me.
I understood.
Let him continue.
“Did Dr. Sinclair know you had stopped considering fertility treatment with her?”
“No.”
“Did she believe reconciliation remained possible?”
Connor’s voice dropped.
“Probably.”
“Did you allow her to believe that?”
His attorney objected.
Kenneth rephrased.
“Did you tell her otherwise?”
“No.”
Kenneth turned another page.
“Why did you transfer fifty thousand dollars to Ms. Travis?”
Connor looked genuinely trapped now.
“It was for expenses.”
“What expenses?”
“Medical.”
“The clinic was paid separately.”
“Other expenses.”
“Such as?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You transferred fifty thousand dollars and don’t remember why?”
Connor leaned back.
“It was complicated.”
Kenneth nodded.
“Let’s simplify it. Were you paying Ms. Travis to carry a child for you?”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
Kenneth noticed.
So did I.
“Were you paying her for eggs?”
“No.”
“Embryo-related treatment?”
“No.”
“Then why was she involved with your fertility clinic?”
Connor said nothing.
His attorney requested another break.
This time Kenneth agreed.
Connor stood immediately.
I walked toward the windows.
Behind me, chairs moved.
Then Connor said my name.
“Kirsten.”
I turned.
His attorney had stepped into the hallway.
Kenneth remained beside me.
“You should hear this from me,” Connor said.
“I’ve heard enough from you.”
“Melinda offered.”
“Offered what?”
“To help me.”
“With what?”
His eyes moved toward Kenneth.
Kenneth said nothing.
Connor rubbed his forehead.
“I was angry.”
“At me?”
“At everything.”
“Be specific.”
“At the diagnosis.”
That surprised me.
For years Connor had behaved as if infertility belonged exclusively to me.
“I couldn’t accept it,” he said.
“So you punished me.”
“I didn’t punish you.”
“You watched me blame myself.”
“I was ashamed.”
“And that gave you permission?”
“No.”
His voice cracked slightly.
“I know that now.”
I looked at him.
“No, Connor. You know you’ve been caught now.”
His face tightened.
“Melinda said there were ways around it.”
“Ways involving her.”
“Yes.”
“Were you sleeping with her?”
He looked away.
“Answer.”
“Yes.”
The word did not hurt.
Not anymore.
“What happened at Westbridge?”
“We discussed donor options.”
“Donor sperm?”
“Yes.”
“And Melinda would carry the pregnancy?”
“We discussed it.”
My stomach turned.
“You planned a child with my best friend while you were still coming home to me.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“What was it like?”
Connor had no answer.
Kenneth stepped forward.
“Was treatment performed?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Melinda changed her mind.”
“When?”
Connor looked at me.
“After she found out she was pregnant.”
Everything stopped.
Kenneth’s pen froze.
I heard myself ask, “Pregnant by whom?”
Connor’s face went pale.
“She said it was mine.”
“How?”
“She said the doctors had been wrong.”
“After they had just confirmed your diagnosis?”
“She said we had been sleeping together. She said sometimes unlikely things happen.”
“And you believed her?”
“I wanted to.”
That was the first completely truthful thing he had said.
Kenneth asked, “Did Ms. Travis tell you about Evan Mercer?”
“No.”
“Ever?”
“No.”
“Did she tell you she had another sexual partner during the conception window?”
“No.”
Connor looked at me.
“When she showed me the test, I thought…”
He stopped.
“You thought what?”
His eyes filled with something I had once mistaken for vulnerability.
“That I wasn’t broken.”
There it was.
Noah had not been a son first.
He had been evidence.
Evidence Connor could use against the diagnosis.
Against his shame.
Against me.
“When did the affair begin?” I asked.
“April.”
I closed my eyes.
April.
A month earlier than Evan had met Melinda.
She had been sleeping with both men.
Possibly overlapping them for months.
Kenneth’s phone vibrated.
He checked the screen.
His expression changed.
“What?” I asked.
He looked at Connor.
“The genetic laboratory has released the preliminary paternity result.”
Connor stood.
“What does it say?”
Kenneth read silently.
Then he handed me the phone.
Probability of paternity for Connor Fleming:
0.00%.
I looked at Connor.
He had stopped breathing.
His attorney returned at that moment and saw his face.
“What happened?”
Connor whispered one word.
“No.”
Kenneth’s phone vibrated again.
A second result.
Evan Mercer.
I watched Kenneth read it.
This time he did not hand me the phone immediately.
Connor gripped the edge of the table.
“Is Mercer the father?”
Kenneth looked at him.
“Yes.”
Connor sank into the chair.
Probability of paternity:
99.9998%.
Nobody spoke.
Outside the conference-room glass, office staff walked past carrying folders and coffee as though the world had not changed.
Connor finally looked at me.
His expression was devastated.
And I understood something that would once have seemed impossible.
I did not enjoy it.
I did not pity him either.
I simply saw him clearly.
A man who had spent years making another person carry his shame had finally been forced to carry it himself.
But Kenneth was still staring at the report.
“What?” I asked.
He frowned.
“There’s an attachment.”
He opened it.
“What kind?”
“A court filing.”
Connor’s attorney stepped closer.
Kenneth read the first paragraph.
Then his eyes lifted to mine.
“Melinda filed an emergency motion this morning.”
“For what?”
“Protection of Noah’s financial interests.”
Connor stared.
“What financial interests?”
Kenneth turned the document around.
Attached was a copy of a trust instrument.
Its date was eleven months earlier.
Its beneficiary was Noah Fleming.
Its initial funding was $500,000.
And the signature authorizing the transfer came from an account that had once been marital property.
My marital property.
Connor whispered, “I never signed that.”
Kenneth looked at him.
“I believe you.”
For the first time, Connor and I were staring at the same betrayal.
Click here to continue reading: PART 8: THE SIGNATURE THAT BELONGED TO NEITHER OF US
Sixteen Days After Walter Died, His Hospice Nurse Called With a Name I Had Never Heard Before
Part 7 of 20
