Chapter 8 - The Surrogate's Secret
The house on Elmwood Lane was a small, modest bungalow with overgrown grass and faded blue paint.
Marcus parked two doors down, keeping the Volvo engine idling. He pulled a small 9mm pistol from his glove compartment and tucked it into his jacket belt. “If things go south, you stay in the car.”
“No,” I said firmly, opening the passenger door. “I’m coming with you.”
We walked up the creaking wooden porch steps. I knocked hard on the front door.
No answer.
I knocked again. “Sarah! Sarah Jenkins! Please open the door! It’s Clara Mercer!”
Inside, I heard a sudden rustle of curtains, followed by the heavy, hurried sound of footfalls moving toward the back of the house.
“She’s running!” Marcus shouted.
Marcus kicked the front door frame near the lock. The wooden jamb splintered, and the door burst open. We rushed into the dark, messy living room.
Sarah Jenkins was frantically pulling a jacket over her shoulders near the kitchen back door. She turned around, holding a heavy iron frying pan like a weapon, her eyes wide with sheer terror.
“Get back!” she screamed, her voice shrill. “Get away from me! They told me you were crazy! They said you’d come for me!”
“Sarah, stop!” I pleaded, holding my open, bleeding hands out in front of me. “Look at me! I’m not crazy! Look at what they did to me!”
Sarah froze, her gaze dropping to my hospital wrist tag, my torn clothes, the dark blood soaking through my waistband, and the massive bruise on my face. Her arm holding the iron pan slowly weakened.
“You... you’re Clara,” Sarah whispered, tears suddenly filling her eyes. “The mother.”
“They took my baby, Sarah,” I wept, taking a slow step toward her. “On March twelfth, you gave birth at Oakridge Hospital. You carried a child that belonged to me and Daniel Mercer. But they lied to both of us.”
Sarah collapsed onto a kitchen chair, burying her face in her hands, her frame shaking with heavy, ragged sobs.
“I didn't know... I swear to God I didn't know!” she wept. “Three years ago, I was drowning in medical debt after my father died. Oakridge offered me a private surrogacy contract. One hundred thousand dollars. They told me it was completely legal—an anonymous donor embryo for a wealthy couple abroad who couldn't carry a child.”
“What happened on March twelfth, Sarah?” Marcus asked softly, stepping up beside me.
Sarah raised her head, her face pale. “I went into labor early. Dr. Keller delivered the baby girl. She was beautiful... perfect. She had a tiny crescent birthmark near her ear.”
My heart stopped. “Yes... yes! That was the baby!”
“No, Clara, listen to me!” Sarah cried, grabbing my sleeve. “When I woke up from recovery... Dr. Keller told me the baby had severe respiratory distress and had been rushed to another medical center in the city. But two hours later... a dark car pulled up to the back delivery dock. I saw them through my window. They put a specialized incubator into the back of a black limousine with diplomatic license plates!”
“Diplomatic plates?” Marcus cut in, his journalistic instincts flaring. “Did you see the flag? The country?”
“It was the seal of the Crestmont Family,” Sarah whispered, her voice trembling. “Lord Harrison Crestmont. The billionaire steel magnate from the UK. He’s Victoria Mercer’s primary business partner!”
The final piece of the terrifying puzzle shattered into place.
Victoria hadn't just created a surrogacy program. She was running a high-end, custom-order genetic baby market for international billionaires. My high-grade biological embryo—fertilized with elite DNA traits—had been pre-sold to Harrison Crestmont for tens of millions of dollars.
And to cover up the missing baby, Victoria and Dr. Keller had taken Sarah’s secondary donor child (the child I carried) and placed her in my arms, pretending everything was normal.
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“My biological daughter is with Harrison Crestmont,” I said, the words burning like molten lead in my throat. “Where is he now?”
“He’s at the Mercer Estate,” Sarah said, looking up at me in horror. “There’s a private charity gala tonight at Victoria’s mansion. Crestmont arrived in the city yesterday on his private jet... to collect his child.”
