“Eight months after divorcing me because I “couldn’t give him a family,”

“I’m not leaving until you tell me where my third embryo is.”

Her face became completely still.

Behind the bridal-suite door, someone laughed.

Music played softly.

A woman called for more hairspray.

Dr. Sloane whispered, “Not here.”

“Then where?”

She turned.

“Follow me.”

We entered an empty conference room across the hall.

Naomi followed and locked the door.

Sloane spun around.

“You need to understand that I never intended—”

I laughed once.

The sound surprised even me.

“Do not begin this conversation by telling me about your intentions.”

“Mia—”

“You lied about my test results.”

Silence.

“My ovarian reserve wasn’t as catastrophic as you said.”

No answer.

“You recommended procedures I didn’t need.”

Her eyes filled with tears.

I felt nothing.

“You shared my medical information with Patricia.”

“I was pressured.”

“You took almost nine hundred thousand dollars.”

Her chin trembled.

“I was in debt.”

“That sounds expensive.”

“My husband’s practice collapsed. There were lawsuits. I made mistakes.”

“So you sold my body to pay for them?”

“No!”

Naomi stepped between us slightly.

“Then explain the emails.”

Sloane looked at the folder.

She knew.

The secrets were no longer secrets.

“Patricia approached me before your second miscarriage.”

My chest tightened.

“Before?”

“Yes.”

“What did she want?”

“Information.”

“What information?”

“Your fertility outlook. Embryo viability. Psychological condition.”