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PART 5 — The Windowless Clinic
That evening, my parents took me to Whitmore House.
Adrian had never seen him.
He had once joked that my parents probably lived in a “nice little retirement apartment with too many books”.
Whitmore House stood behind wrought-iron gates, at the end of a private drive lined with trees in winter. It was an old stone building, covered in ivy, with tall windows and a silence that seemed protected by generations of secrets.
Inside, the east wing had been prepared for me.
Three cribs.
A postpartum nurse.
Hot soup.
Soft blankets.
My mother’s old rocking chair, near the window of the nursery.
For the first time since giving birth, I slept for two hours straight.
When I woke up, Dorian was waiting for me in the living room with my parents.
His face told me that we had discovered something new.
I sat down cautiously, grimacing.
My father noticed and looked distressed. “You should rest.”
“I rested for two hours. It’s practically a vacation.”
No one laughed.
Dorian placed a document on the table.
“We have traced recurring payments from Adrian’s shell company to a private fertility clinic.”
My heart stopped.
“Which clinic?”
“Voss’s reproductive genetics.”
My mother remained completely still.
I looked back and forth. “Why do you know that name?”
My father’s silence terrified me more than Adrian’s cruelty ever had.
“Dad,” I said. “How do you know?”
He took off his glasses.
Four years ago, when Adrian and I were trying for a baby, month after month, test after test negative, I cried on the bathroom tiles until my throat hurt. Adrian took me in his arms and whispered, “Maybe motherhood just isn’t for everyone.”
Those words kept coming back to me like poison.
Dorian spoke cautiously. “Adrian made payments to the clinic during your fertility treatments.”
“I’ve never been to that clinic.”
“No,” replied Dorian. “Not of his own free will.”
The room became airless.
My mother reached out her hand towards me.
I moved away.
“What does that mean?”
My father finally looked at me. “Evelyn, before your marriage to Adrian, I had some concerns.”
“You had concerns about everyone I was dating.”
“Yes. But Adrian was different.”
“Did you investigate him?”
“I investigate everyone who enters this family.”
My former self would have been angry.
My new self was too tired for innocence.
“What did you find?”
“Debts. Ambition. Resentment. Nothing criminal, then.” Her lips tightened. “But after your first miscarriage…”
I flinched.
We never talked about it.
I lost the baby before twelve weeks. Adrian’s grief had turned into annoyance.
My father continued in a low voice: “I asked a private doctor to examine your medical reports. Something seemed abnormal to me.”
My pulse was racing. “Did you have access to my medical records?”
“I was afraid.”
“You had no right.”
“I know.”
This confession astonished me.
My mother whispered, “Thomas.”
He ignored it. “The doctor suspects your treatments have been tampered with.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
Dorian slid another sheet of paper through the page. “Some of the medications you’ve been prescribed could reduce the chances of implantation if they aren’t taken at the right time. Adrian had access to your patient file through your portal. He changed the pharmacy’s delivery dates twice.”
These words made no sense at first.
And they did it.
Adrian had comforted me while simultaneously hurting me.
He wiped away my tears while still holding the knife.
I stood up too quickly and almost fell.
My mother surprised me.
“Did he do this?” I whispered. “He made me lose…”
“We don’t know if he caused the miscarriage,” Dorian said softly. “But he interfered with the treatment afterwards.”
“For what?”
No one responded.
Then my phone vibrated.
Number unknown.
A text appeared.
Ask your father why he actually invested in ValeArc.
I raised my eyes slowly.
My father’s face had turned pale.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
Before he could answer, Dorian’s phone rang. He listened, his face tightening with each passing second.
When he hung up, he said, “The clinic’s records have been leaked.”
My mother closed her eyes.
My father said only one word.
“By whom?”
Dorian looked at me.
“Dr. Mara Voss.”
My phone rang again.
Number unknown.
I answered with a trembling hand.
A woman’s voice murmured, panting.
“Evelyn Whitmore? Your husband lied to you. But your father lied first.”
The line was cut.
The room was blurry.
My father stood up. “Evelyn…”
“No,” I replied.
My voice trembled so much that even the babies in the next room moved.
“No more protection. No more secrets. No more men deciding which truth I can survive.”
My father looked older than I had ever seen him.
Then he nodded.
“Very well,” he said. “Then you will have the whole truth.”