“Yes.”

One word.

No anger.

No drama.

Just truth.

It hurt worse than shouting would have.

“I believed her,” I said.

“I know.”

“I thought the photos—”

“I know.”

“I thought you took the money.”

Her fingers tightened.

“I know, Michael.”

I stopped.

Because each explanation was only another way of saying I had failed her.

Emily looked at the sleeping twins.

“When I found out I was pregnant, I thought it was a miracle. I thought maybe the clinic had used our embryos. I thought…” She swallowed hard. “I thought at least one part of us had survived.”

I looked at the babies.

“What are their names?”

Her face softened slightly.

“Eli and Noah.”

Eli.

Noah.

My sons.

No matter what blood or paperwork said, something inside me had already accepted them the first moment I saw them beneath that brutal Georgia sun.

“Can I see them?” I asked.

Emily hesitated.

That hesitation told the story of the whole year.

Then she nodded.

I stood slowly and moved toward the bassinet.

The boys were tiny, perfect, impossible.

Eli slept with one fist pressed against his cheek. Noah’s mouth moved as if dreaming of milk. Their hair was dark. Their eyelashes fine as silk.

I lowered myself into the chair beside them.

My vision blurred.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

Not to Emily this time.

To them.

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”

Emily looked away, but I saw tears slide down her face.

David entered the room a few minutes later, holding his phone and a folder.

“There’s more,” he said.

I almost laughed.

Of course there was.

There was always more.

Emily wiped her cheek. “About Ashley?”

“About the clinic.”

He closed the door behind him.

“The fertility clinic shut down nine months ago after a quiet settlement involving mishandled genetic material. Not public. Sealed. I only found references because Paula Bennett’s name appeared in a malpractice complaint.”

I stood. “Mishandled how?”

David opened the folder.

“Missing samples. Altered storage logs. Unauthorized transfers.”

Emily looked sick.

“Were there other women?”

David’s silence answered before he did.

“At least three.”

The room seemed to shrink.

Emily pressed a hand over her stomach as if remembering the violation of it.

“What happens now?” she whispered.

“Now,” David said, “we get proper DNA tests. Court-admissible. Full genetic profiles. You’ll need an attorney. A very good one.”

“I don’t have money for that,” Emily said.

“I do,” I said immediately.

She looked at me.

“No.”

“Emily—”

“No,” she repeated, stronger now. “You don’t get to walk back in and fix things with a checkbook.”

I nodded slowly.

She was right.

“I understand.”

Her eyes searched mine, as if trying to decide whether I truly did.

“I’m not trying to buy forgiveness,” I said. “I’m trying to protect them. And you.”

For a moment, her face softened.

Then it closed again.

“I protected them alone for eleven months.”

That sentence hollowed me out.

Before I could answer, my phone rang.

The screen showed my mother’s name.

I almost didn’t answer.

Then I remembered she had loved Emily once like a daughter. I remembered how quickly she had believed Ashley too.

I stepped into the hallway.

“Mom?”

Her voice shook.

“Michael, where are you?”

“Macon.”

There was silence.

Then she said, “Is it true?”

I closed my eyes.

“What did you hear?”

“Ashley’s arrest is already circulating. Someone from the club called. They said Emily is alive, and there are children, and Ashley—” Her voice broke. “Michael, tell me what’s happening.”

I leaned against the wall.

“I don’t know all of it yet.”