“Arthur loves you.”

“Arthur ran a background check on me before he proposed.”

Silence.

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I don’t know everything yet. But I know enough to get a divorce.”

I hung up.

The following days were a whirlwind.

The press smelled blood. An illegal adoption ring linked to private clinics, influential families, and an insurance company that for decades had quite literally covered up files. Brenda managed to get protective measures placed on the case. My mom was moved to a safe facility while she recovered.

Edward Sterling didn’t show up at first.

He sent lawyers.

Then press releases.

“Slander.”

“Forged documents.”

“Extortion attempt.”

But the capsule held something nobody expected: a copy of an original birth record with footprints. My mother’s fingerprints, taken while she was sedated. And a clinical note that read: “viable male infant.”

Viable.

Not dead.

Viable.

When Brenda explained that word to me, I felt like my mom was losing her baby for a second time.

The meeting with Edward happened three weeks later.

It wasn’t like in the movies.