Chapter 8 — The Child They Were Trying to Claim
Chapter 8 — The Child They Were Trying to Claim
For several minutes after Eleanor said the name, nobody moved.
Marianne.
I had spent my entire life believing my mother was an only child.
Now I was standing in a motel room with a woman who claimed to be my aunt, a wife carrying my child, and a family secret that seemed to grow darker every time we uncovered another layer.
I looked at Eleanor.
“You said Margaret had a twin.”
“Yes.”
“Where is she?”
“I don't know.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
Eleanor's expression hardened.
“I disappeared because of her.”
Irene looked between us.
“Why would a twin hide from her own family?”
Eleanor looked at me.
“Because Marianne isn't hiding.”
“Then where is she?”
“Closer than you think.”
My stomach tightened.
“What does that mean?”
Eleanor didn't answer.
Instead, she picked up the photograph of the woman from the hospital records.
“She was there when you lost your first child.”
Irene nodded slowly.
“I remember her.”
Eleanor stared at the photograph.
“And if she knows about your pregnancy now…”
She stopped.
“What?”
“She won't wait until the baby is born.”
We returned to Phoenix before sunrise.
I didn't tell my mother that we knew about Marianne.
I didn't tell Carla.
I didn't tell anyone.
Detective Harris was the only person outside our immediate group who knew.
She agreed to keep the information confidential.
“If Marianne is using Margaret's identity,” she said, “we need proof before we move.”
“What kind of proof?”
“Medical records. Financial transfers. Phone records. Surveillance.”
I nodded.
“Find everything.”
She looked at me.
“You understand what you're dealing with?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
She pointed at the file.
“This isn't a family dispute anymore.”
I knew.
“It hasn't been for a long time.”
That afternoon, Irene had another prenatal appointment.
I wanted to cancel it.
She refused.
“I need to know the baby is okay.”
I couldn't argue.
We arrived at the clinic through a private entrance.
Security checked the hallway twice.
Dr. Wells met us personally.
“How are you feeling?”
“Tired.”
“Any pain?”
“No.”
“Bleeding?”
“No.”
“Good.”
She smiled gently.
“Let's take a look at the baby.”
Irene lay back.
The room darkened.
The ultrasound machine came alive.
Then the screen appeared.
A tiny body.
A tiny heartbeat.
Fast.
Steady.
Alive.
I felt something loosen inside my chest.
I reached for Irene's hand.
She squeezed mine.
For a moment, everything else disappeared.
The trust.
My mother.
Marianne.
Victor.
The money.
All of it.
There was only that tiny heartbeat.
Our child.
Then Dr. Wells went silent.
I looked at her.
“What?”
She stared at the screen.
“Something's wrong.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
“The baby's measurements.”
I stepped closer.
“What about them?”
She frowned.
“The pregnancy is farther along than we calculated.”
Irene sat up.
“What?”
Dr. Wells checked the previous report.
“By nearly three weeks.”
I stared at her.
“That can't be right.”
“It shouldn't be.”
She looked at Irene.
“Do you remember the date of your last cycle?”
“Yes.”
Dr. Wells calculated again.
Then her expression changed.
“That's impossible.”
“What?”
She turned the monitor toward us.
“The first test may have been misdated.”
Irene looked confused.
“What does that mean?”
“It means someone may have altered the original medical records.”
Silence.
Again.
Another lie.
Another record.
Another attempt to control the truth.
I clenched my fists.
“Can you determine the actual conception date?”
“Yes.”
“Do it.”
She ran additional calculations.
After several minutes, she looked at us.
“The baby was conceived almost exactly three weeks earlier than the date in the original records.”
I looked at Irene.
She looked back at me.
Neither of us understood.
Then Eleanor spoke from the doorway.
“I do.”
Everyone turned.
She held a folder.
“The original record wasn't altered because of the pregnancy.”
She looked at Irene.
“It was altered because of the father.”
My blood went cold.
“What are you talking about?”
Eleanor placed the folder on the counter.
“Your child may not be genetically related to the man your mother believes is the father.”
I stared at her.
“I am the father.”
“I know.”
“Then what does that mean?”
Eleanor looked at Irene.
“Someone changed the dates to hide when you were together.”
Irene went pale.
“Why?”
“To make the child legally vulnerable.”
I understood immediately.
If the timeline could be manipulated, someone could challenge paternity.
And if they challenged paternity, they could challenge the inheritance.
The baby wasn't only being claimed.
Someone was preparing to deny who the baby belonged to.
That evening, we received a court notice.
I opened it.
Petition for Emergency Protective Custody of Unborn Child.
My hands went numb.
The petitioner was listed as:
Margaret Wentworth.
I stared.
“She filed already.”
Detective Harris read the document.
“This is aggressive.”
“Can she do this?”
“Anyone can file.”
“Can she win?”
“Not if the evidence is fraudulent.”
I looked at the signature.
It wasn't my mother's.
I knew her handwriting.
“This isn't Margaret.”
Detective Harris looked at me.
“What?”
“That's not her signature.”
She examined it.
“You're right.”
I felt a cold chill.
“Then who filed it?”
She turned the page.
The attorney's name was listed.
Marianne Vale.
I froze.
Eleanor closed her eyes.
“She found us.”
The next morning, a woman walked into the courthouse.
She wore a cream-colored suit.
Dark sunglasses.
Her hair was tied back.
A small scar crossed her eyebrow.
I knew immediately.
Marianne.
She looked exactly like my mother.
Except older.
Colder.
More controlled.
She removed her sunglasses.
Then looked directly at me.
“Austin.”
My stomach tightened.
“How do you know me?”
She smiled.
“I've known you since the day you were born.”
I stepped closer.
“You were at the hospital.”
“Yes.”
“When Irene lost our first baby.”
Her expression didn't change.
“I was.”
“Why?”
“To protect you.”
I laughed bitterly.
“You drugged my wife.”
“No.”
“You lied about the pregnancy.”
“No.”
“You interfered with the medical records.”
“I did.”
She said it calmly.
No hesitation.
I stared.
“Why?”
“Because your mother was going to kill your child.”
“My first child?”
Marianne looked at Irene.
“Yes.”
Irene stepped forward.
“You knew about the miscarriage?”
“I caused it.”
Silence.
I felt the world disappear.
“What?”
Marianne looked at her.
“The medication was never intended to cause a miscarriage.”
I stared.
“Then what was it?”
“A test.”
“A test?”
“To determine whether the baby carried the genetic marker.”
I felt sick.
“What genetic marker?”
Marianne looked at Eleanor.
“The Vale marker.”
Eleanor went pale.
“What did you do?”
Marianne smiled.
“I protected the bloodline.”
“You murdered a child.”
“No.”
Her voice hardened.
“I saved the bloodline from Margaret.”
I couldn't listen anymore.
“You are insane.”
“Maybe.”
She looked at Irene.
“But your child is alive.”
“Stay away from my wife.”
Marianne laughed.
“You still don't understand.”
“What?”
She stepped closer.
“The child isn't yours to protect.”
My fists tightened.
“She is my daughter.”
Marianne's smile disappeared.
“You don't know what your daughter is.”
That sentence haunted me.
Not because of what she said.
Because of the confidence in her voice.
As if she knew something about my child that I didn't.
That night, I asked Eleanor.
“What is the Vale marker?”
She hesitated.
“It's a genetic trait.”
“What kind?”
“Rare.”
“That doesn't explain anything.”
“It determines inheritance.”
“How?”
“The original Vale fortune was placed under a bloodline clause.”
I stared.
“So the baby has to carry the marker.”
“Yes.”
“And if she does?”
“She becomes the legal heir.”
“To everything?”
“Yes.”
I looked at Irene.
“What if she doesn't?”
Eleanor didn't answer.
I already knew.
“Then someone else inherits.”
“Marianne.”
“Yes.”
I looked at the documents.
The court petition.
The trust.
The medical records.
Everything suddenly made sense.
Marianne wasn't trying to steal my child.
She was trying to establish that the child belonged to her bloodline.
And if she could prove that, she could claim the inheritance.
But there was another problem.
“What does this have to do with Margaret?”
Eleanor looked at me.
“Margaret and Marianne have been fighting over the same inheritance for thirty years.”
“And my child?”
“Is the deciding factor.”
The next morning, Irene woke up screaming.
I ran into the bedroom.
She was clutching her stomach.
“What happened?”
“Pain.”
“Where?”
“Here.”
I called emergency services.
Then I noticed something on the floor.
A small envelope.
I picked it up.
There was no name.
Inside was a photograph.
The ultrasound from yesterday.
Someone had taken a picture of the screen.
On the back:
We know she's carrying the marker.
My blood froze.
Irene stared at it.
“How?”
I didn't answer.
Another sentence had been written beneath it.
Now we only need her born alive.
I felt sick.
They didn't just want the baby.
They needed the baby alive.
I suddenly remembered Carla's words.
Mom wants the baby alive.
And Victor's.
The baby is the key.
Everything connected.
The child wasn't being hunted because she was vulnerable.
She was being hunted because she was valuable.
At the hospital, doctors confirmed the baby was stable.
The pain had been caused by stress.
But Dr. Wells refused to let Irene leave immediately.
“You need observation.”
I nodded.
“Whatever she needs.”
A security officer stood outside the room.
Then another.
Nobody entered without verification.
For the first time, I thought we might be safe.
I was wrong.
At 3:17 p.m., a nurse entered.
She checked Irene's chart.
“Mrs. Wentworth?”
“Yes?”
“I need to take you downstairs for additional testing.”
I stepped forward.
“Which testing?”
The nurse froze.
“Routine.”
“Which test?”
She looked at the chart.
“Blood work.”
“Dr. Wells didn't order blood work.”
The nurse's face changed.
I immediately reached for the emergency button.
She ran.
Security caught her at the elevator.
Detective Harris arrived twenty minutes later.
They searched the nurse.
She carried a forged hospital badge.
And a syringe.
I looked at it.
“What was in it?”
Detective Harris answered:
“A sedative.”
Irene's face went white.
The same kind of medication used six years earlier.
The same medication that had preceded the miscarriage.
My blood turned to ice.
“This wasn't an accident.”
“No.”
“Who sent her?”
“We're interrogating her.”
That night, Detective Harris returned.
“We identified her.”
“Who?”
“She isn't a nurse.”
“Then who?”
“Marianne's employee.”
I stared.
“Where is Marianne?”
“Gone.”
I clenched my jaw.
“Find her.”
“We're trying.”
“What about my mother?”
Detective Harris looked at me.
“Margaret disappeared too.”
I froze.
“When?”
“Two hours ago.”
Irene looked at me.
“So they're working together?”
“No.”
Eleanor's voice came from the doorway.
“They're running from each other.”
Everyone turned.
Eleanor held a document.
“I found this in Margaret's office.”
She handed it to me.
It was a photograph.
Three women stood together.
Margaret.
Marianne.
And another woman.
I looked at Eleanor.
“Who is the third?”
She stared at the photograph.
Her face went pale.
“My mother.”
I frowned.
“Your mother died twenty years ago.”
“Yes.”
“Then who is this?”
Eleanor whispered:
“That isn't my mother.”
“Who is she?”
Eleanor looked at Irene.
Then at me.
“The woman who raised Margaret and Marianne wasn't their biological mother.”
I stared.
“Then who was?”
Eleanor's voice dropped.
“The woman behind the entire bloodline.”
I felt a chill.
“Who?”
She pointed to the photograph.
At the third woman.
“She is the reason your child is being hunted.”
I looked at the photograph again.
The woman was smiling.
But beneath the image, someone had written a name.
Isabella Vale.
Eleanor's face hardened.
“She died twenty years ago.”
I looked at her.
“Then why is she in a photograph taken last month?”
Nobody answered.
Because there was only one explanation.
Someone had been hiding the truth from us for decades.
And whoever Isabella Vale really was, she was still alive.
May you like
Still watching.
And she knew exactly when my daughter would be born.
