Chapter 4 - The DNA of Distrust
The fallout from the gala was instantaneous. By Friday morning, the local high-society blogs were rampant with rumors. Connor Fleming’s public meltdown was the talk of the town, but the real storm was happening behind closed doors.
I was sitting in my office when my desk phone rang. It was the legal department of the hospital.
"Dr. Sinclair," the hospital's general counsel, Arthur Pendelton, said. "We have an unusual situation. A Mr. Connor Fleming has arrived with a court order demanding the release of his medical records from his 2024 physical. He’s accompanied by a private forensic notary."
"Let him have them, Arthur," I said, leaning back in my chair. "They aren't sealed under patient-doctor privilege for me; they are his records. He has every right to see how healthy he is."
"Very well. I should inform you, Dr. Vance is already down here. He wanted to ensure everything was handled legally."
Ten minutes later, my office door burst open. Connor walked in, followed by a terrified-looking legal assistant. In Connor’s hand was a thick manila folder. His face was entirely gray, his eyes bloodshot, his hands trembling so hard the paper rattled.
He slammed the folder onto my desk.
"Explain this," he choked out. The arrogance was completely gone, replaced by a hollow, desperate vacuum. "Explain what these numbers mean."
I didn't get up. I looked down at the lab results pinned beneath his trembling hand. "It's quite simple, Connor. Your total sperm count is zero. Your motility is non-existent. You have a genetic mutation that prevents spermatogenesis. You have had this since birth."
"No," he whispered, shaking his head. "No, that’s impossible. Clinics make mistakes. Labs mix up samples. Liam looks like me!"
"Liam looks like a little boy with blond hair and blue eyes, Connor. Marcus Vance also has blond hair and blue eyes. So do millions of other people." I stood up, leaning over the desk, forcing him to look into my eyes. "You spent seven years telling me I was broken. You made me go through invasive procedures, painful hormone injections, and endless psychological torment. You let your mother call me a 'dead end' at Thanksgiving dinner. And all along, it was you."
"Why didn't you tell me?" he screamed, his voice breaking. "If you knew, why didn't you tell me before the divorce?"
"I didn't know during our marriage, Connor," I said truthfully. "You refused to ever get tested. You said it was a 'woman's issue.' You told me your manhood wasn't up for debate. I only found these records two months ago when I was cleaning out the insurance archives. You hid your physical results from me back then because you didn't care about the details—you just wanted the policy."
He slumped into the chair across from my desk, burying his face in his hands. A harsh, dry sob escaped his throat. "She lied to me. She told me it happened the first night. She said it was a miracle. She said we were meant to be because she could give me what you couldn't."
"She gave you what you wanted to hear, Connor. She knew your ego was your biggest weakness, and she used it to secure a lifestyle."
The door opened softly, and Julian walked in. He looked at Connor with a mixture of pity and cold professionalism. "Mr. Fleming, your vehicle is blocking the emergency loop. I suggest you take your records and leave. The truth is out now. What you do with it is your business, but you will not disrupt my hospital any longer."
May you like
Connor stood up slowly, looking like an old man. He picked up the folder, his eyes landing on me one last time. "Kirsten... I'm sorry."
"Don't," I said, turning my back to him and looking out the window at the city skyline. "Your apologies are a year too late, and a lifetime too cheap."
