CHAPTER 4 — MARIANNE'S LAST LIE
CHAPTER 4 — MARIANNE'S LAST LIE
I didn't follow Theodore Grant.
Not immediately.
I stood in that abandoned clinic with my eyes fixed on the photograph.
My mother.
Alive.
Standing beside me.
Standing beside Marianne Blackwood.
Six months before my fertility treatment.
Six months before my marriage supposedly began to fall apart.
Six months before I had any reason to believe my life was about to become a nightmare.
My fingers tightened around the photograph.
"Where is she?"
Grant didn't answer.
I looked at him.
"Where is my mother?"
"Mrs. Blackwood knows."
"Then take me to her."
Grant's expression remained unreadable.
"That's what I'm here to do."
Dr. Shaw suddenly grabbed my arm.
"Clara."
I turned.
Her eyes were full of fear.
"Don't go with him."
Grant sighed.
"Doctor, I wouldn't advise you to make this more complicated."
She didn't let go.
"You don't understand."
"I understand perfectly."
"No."
She shook her head.
"You don't."
Then she looked at me.
"Marianne doesn't want you to know the truth."
I stared at her.
"Then why would she send someone to bring me to her?"
Dr. Shaw's lips parted.
She had no answer.
Grant stepped closer.
"Because she knows Clara will find the truth eventually."
He looked at me.
"Mrs. Blackwood is dying."
I froze.
"What?"
"She has less than a week."
My anger disappeared for one second.
Not because I felt sorry for her.
Because suddenly everything made sense.
The urgency.
The missing doctor.
The sudden confession.
The photograph.
Marianne wasn't trying to protect herself anymore.
She was trying to control the story before she died.
I looked at Dr. Shaw.
"Did you know?"
She nodded reluctantly.
"She was diagnosed months ago."
"And she kept it secret."
"Yes."
I looked at Grant.
"What does she want from me?"
"She wants to tell you the truth."
I laughed bitterly.
"Marianne Blackwood doesn't tell the truth."
Grant looked at me.
"Perhaps."
He opened the door.
"But she does know how to tell a very convincing lie."
The Blackwood estate looked exactly as I remembered it.
Massive iron gates.
Stone columns.
Perfect gardens.
A fountain in the center of the driveway.
For years, I had called this place home.
Then Julian divorced me.
He moved Sienna into this house.
And I disappeared from their world.
Or so they thought.
As the car rolled toward the entrance, memories came rushing back.
Our wedding.
Christmas dinners.
My charity events.
Sienna laughing in the kitchen.
Julian kissing my forehead.
Marianne watching everything from the corner of the room.
I had always thought she disliked me.
I was wrong.
She hadn't disliked me.
She had been studying me.
Grant opened the door.
"She's upstairs."
I stepped out.
"Where is Julian?"
"Not here."
"Sienna?"
"At the hospital."
"With the baby?"
"Yes."
I looked toward the mansion.
"Good."
Grant frowned.
"Good?"
"I don't want them here."
He nodded.
"Mrs. Blackwood requested that this meeting remain private."
I walked inside.
The house smelled exactly the same.
Polished wood.
Expensive flowers.
Old money.
But now every room felt different.
Every painting looked like a witness.
Every photograph felt like evidence.
Grant led me upstairs.
We stopped outside Marianne's bedroom.
He knocked.
"Come in."
The voice was weak.
But unmistakable.
Grant opened the door.
Marianne sat beside the window.
She looked smaller than I remembered.
Her silver hair was perfectly arranged.
Her hands rested on a blanket.
An oxygen tube ran beneath her nose.
But her eyes—
those eyes were still sharp.
They landed on me.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then she smiled.
"Clara."
I hated how naturally she said my name.
As though she hadn't destroyed my life.
As though we were still family.
I walked into the room.
"You knew."
Her smile disappeared.
"About what?"
"My mother."
Silence.
That was all the answer I needed.
"You knew she was alive."
Marianne looked toward the window.
"Yes."
My heart pounded.
"For how long?"
"Since before you married Julian."
I felt sick.
"You let me believe she was dead."
"Yes."
"Why?"
She looked at me.
"Because your mother wanted it that way."
I stared at her.
"My mother wanted me to think she was dead?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"To protect you."
I laughed.
"Everyone keeps saying that."
Marianne's expression hardened.
"Because it is true."
"No."
I stepped closer.
"You didn't protect me."
"You destroyed my marriage."
"You stole my child."
"You ruined my reputation."
"You watched me blame myself for a year."
"And now you want me to believe you did it to protect me?"
Her eyes filled with tears.
"I didn't steal your child."
I froze.
"What?"
"I didn't order the embryo transfer."
"Dr. Shaw says you did."
"Dr. Shaw is mistaken."
"You paid her."
"I paid her to keep silent."
"About what?"
Marianne didn't answer.
I stared at her.
"What aren't you telling me?"
She closed her eyes.
"I tried to stop it."
I almost shouted.
"Stop what?"
"The transfer."
My anger faltered.
"What?"
"I found out about the plan."
"And?"
"I tried to stop it."
"Then why didn't you?"
She looked at me.
"Because by the time I understood what was happening, the transfer had already been arranged."
"By whom?"
Marianne whispered:
"Your mother."
The room seemed to tilt.
"No."
"Yes."
"My mother wouldn't do that."
"You don't know your mother."
"I know enough."
Marianne shook her head.
"You know the woman she wanted you to remember."
I stepped backward.
"What does that mean?"
Marianne looked at the door.
"Lock it."
I didn't move.
"Why?"
"Because if someone hears this conversation, you may never leave this house."
A chill ran through me.
I locked the door.
Marianne lowered her voice.
"Your mother wasn't dead."
"I know."
"She changed her identity."
"Why?"
"Because she was running from people."
"Who?"
Marianne looked at me.
"The Blackwoods."
I frowned.
"Why would my mother run from your family?"
"Because she stole something from us."
"What?"
Marianne's face tightened.
"Money?"
"No."
"Documents?"
"No."
"Then what?"
Marianne whispered:
"A child."
My blood ran cold.
"What child?"
She looked directly into my eyes.
"Yours."
I couldn't breathe.
"My mother stole my child?"
"No."
She shook her head.
"Not that child."
"Then what child?"
Marianne stared at me.
"The first one."
My mind went blank.
"The first one?"
She nodded.
"Before Julian."
"Before your marriage."
"Before the fertility treatments."
"You were pregnant."
I stared at her.
"I've never been pregnant."
Marianne's eyes softened.
"That's what you were told."
I shook my head.
"No."
"You were sixteen."
"My mother told everyone you were sick."
"My father told everyone you were hospitalized."
"You disappeared for three months."
I remembered.
Vaguely.
There had always been a missing part of my childhood.
A three-month period nobody discussed.
I had assumed it was because of my mother's illness.
But now—
I remembered a hospital room.
White curtains.
A woman crying.
Someone holding my hand.
And a baby crying somewhere nearby.
I pressed my fingers against my temples.
"I don't remember."
"Of course you don't."
"Why?"
"Because your mother made sure you wouldn't."
I stared at Marianne.
"What did she do?"
"She had your memories altered."
My blood went cold.
"What?"
"Not medically."
Marianne shook her head.
"Psychologically."
"She convinced you the pregnancy never happened."
"She told you the baby died."
I stared at her.
"But I never knew I had a baby."
"Exactly."
My legs weakened.
I grabbed the back of a chair.
"Where is the child?"
Marianne didn't answer.
"Where?"
She looked toward the window.
"I don't know."
"You know."
"I knew once."
"What happened?"
"He disappeared."
"Who took him?"
Marianne's expression changed.
"That's the question."
A knock came at the door.
Both of us froze.
Grant's voice came from outside.
"Mrs. Blackwood?"
Marianne didn't answer.
The handle moved.
She whispered:
"Don't open it."
I stared at her.
"Why?"
"Because he isn't alone."
The door opened.
Grant stepped inside.
Behind him stood a woman.
Black hair.
Pale skin.
Dark coat.
Gloves.
My heart stopped.
I knew her.
Not personally.
But from somewhere.
From the photograph.
From the laboratory.
From the shadows behind the glass.
Marianne stared at her.
"You shouldn't be here."
The woman smiled.
"Neither should you."
Marianne's face became terrified.
I looked between them.
"Who is she?"
The woman looked at me.
Her expression softened.
"Clara."
I stepped back.
"How do you know my name?"
She smiled.
"Because I knew you before you knew yourself."
Marianne whispered:
"Don't listen to her."
The woman ignored her.
She looked at me.
"Your mother wasn't the one who stole your child."
"She was trying to save you."
I looked at Marianne.
"You said she ordered the transfer."
Marianne closed her eyes.
"I lied."
The woman smiled.
"There it is."
I stared at Marianne.
"What did you lie about?"
She opened her eyes.
"The embryo."
"What?"
"I told you your mother arranged the transfer."
"She didn't."
"No."
"Then who did?"
Marianne looked at the woman.
"She did."
The room went silent.
The woman stepped forward.
"I transferred your embryo."
My heart stopped.
"Why?"
She smiled.
"Because your child was never supposed to belong to you."
I stared at her.
"What does that mean?"
She reached into her coat.
Removed a photograph.
Then placed it on the table.
I looked down.
A newborn baby.
Tiny.
Red-faced.
Wrapped in a white blanket.
My hands began shaking.
On the back of the photograph was a date.
Sixteen years earlier.
The same year I had supposedly never been pregnant.
I looked at the woman.
"Who is that?"
She smiled.
"Your first son."
I couldn't breathe.
Then she said the words that shattered everything I thought I knew.
"He's alive."
Marianne began crying.
"Clara, I'm sorry."
I looked at her.
"For what?"
She whispered:
"For lying to you."
I shook my head.
"No."
I looked at the woman.
Then at the photograph.
"You're still lying."
The woman smiled.
"Why would I lie?"
I pointed at the photograph.
"Because that's not my first son."
She frowned.
I looked closer.
The baby had a tiny birthmark beneath his left ear.
The same mark as the child Sienna was holding.
My heart stopped.
I whispered:
"That's my son."
Nobody moved.
Then I understood.
The first child.
The embryo.
Sienna's baby.
Everything was connected.
The child I had been told was never mine—
was connected to the child I had been told I could never have.
And Marianne's final lie wasn't that my mother had stolen my child.
It was that there had ever been only one child to begin with.
I looked at her.
"How many embryos were created?"
Marianne's eyes filled with tears.
"Two."
I whispered:
"And the second one?"
The woman in black smiled.
"That's the child we've been protecting for sixteen years."
I stared at her.
"Who?"
She stepped closer.
Then whispered:
"Your daughter."
My world stopped.
A daughter.
A second embryo.
A second child.
A child I had never known existed.
A child someone had hidden from me for sixteen years.
And suddenly the entire story changed.
The fertility treatment.
The stolen embryo.
The fake diagnosis.
Sienna's baby.
My mother's disappearance.
Marianne's lies.
They weren't separate secrets.
They were pieces of one enormous secret.
And somewhere in Chicago—
a sixteen-year-old girl was living under another name.
A girl who carried my DNA.
A girl who had no idea that I was her mother.
I looked at Marianne.
"Where is she?"
Marianne closed her eyes.
"I don't know."
The woman in black smiled.
"I do."
I turned toward her.
"Where?"
She looked directly at me.
"Across the street."
I frowned.
"From where?"
She pointed toward the window.
"St. Jude Hospital."
My blood turned to ice.
The hospital.
The baby.
Julian.
Sienna.
Dr. Vance.
Everyone was there.
And the woman whispered:
"Your daughter has been watching you all night."
I rushed toward the window.
Across the street, behind the glass of the hospital's upper floor—
a teenage girl stood perfectly still.
She was staring directly at me.
And even from that distance—
I knew her face.
May you like
Because I had seen it every morning for sixteen years.
In my own mirror.
