Chapter 2 - What Lay Beneath the Board
The noise of the backyard party sounded distant, like listening to a celebration taking place underwater.
My heart hammered against my ribs as I pushed past my sister-in-law, who was mid-sentence offering a loud toast to "baby girls." I reached the dessert table, where the three-tiered cake sat on its heavy silver platter. Crumbs of white sponge and streak marks of dark pink frosting smeared the marble surface.
Mark was standing three feet away, his arm wrapped around Lauren’s waist. Lauren was still staring at her plate, her skin pale, her breathing shallow.
"Grace, what’s wrong?" Mark asked, his brow furrowing in fake concern as I approached. "You look like you’ve seen a ghost."
I didn't answer him. My eyes locked onto the baker, Sarah, who had followed me quietly from her van. She gave me a tiny, imperceptible nod.
"I just want to move the cake to the shade," I lied smoothly, my voice surprisingly steady despite the rage boiling beneath my chest. "The frosting is starting to melt under the sun."
Before Mark could step in to help, I grabbed the edges of the heavy silver platter and lifted the entire display. Sarah stepped forward, reaching under the raised silver stand.
Taped flat against the bottom of the acrylic cake board was a thin, moisture-resistant plastic sleeve sealed with red tamper-evident tape. Inside it lay a folded sheet of official medical stationery and a small, metallic silver USB flash drive.
Mark’s face drained of every ounce of color.
He took a sharp step forward, his jaw tightening into a hard, defensive line. "Grace, don't touch that. That’s... that’s just the bakery’s receipt and warranty card for the display stand."
"Receipts don't come on USB drives, Mark," I said, peeling the plastic sleeve off the board.
Lauren slowly lifted her head. Her dark eyes moved from the plastic sleeve in my hand to her husband's pale, rigid face.
"Mark?" Lauren whispered, her voice cracking. "What is that?"
"Nothing, sweetheart," Mark said quickly, reaching out to grab my wrist. "Your mother is misunderstanding something. Give that to me, Grace."
"Touch me and I scream right here in front of thirty people," I growled, stepping back out of his reach.
The backyard fell quiet. The laughter died down as guests began noticing the tense, hushed confrontation occurring by the dessert table. My brother stopped pouring champagne; my neighbors turned around with glasses held halfway to their lips.
I ripped the red tamper tape open and pulled out the folded paper.
It was an official laboratory report from the Manhattan Reproductive Genetics Center—the very clinic where Lauren had undergone her third round of IVF.
At the top of the page were two names: Mark Anthony Miller and Sundance Surrogacy Services LLC.
And right beneath the medical header, printed in bold black lettering, was the genetic summary:
EMBRYO IDENTIFICATION: M-004
CHROMOSOMAL RESULT: XY (MALE)
STATUS: IMPLANTED / ACTIVE PREGNANCY (GESTATIONAL CARRIER: KATHLEEN REID)
My breath hitched in my throat.
I looked up from the paper, my mind spinning into complete, violent chaos.
Lauren hadn't just cut into a cake that lied about the sex of her baby.
The cake had lied about who was pregnant.
Lauren wasn't carrying a girl. Lauren wasn't carrying a baby at all.
I looked at my daughter—my gentle, fragile daughter who had endured four years of needle pricks, hormone injections, and brutal midnight tears over ruined ultrasound scans. She was holding her hand gently over her bump.
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"Lauren..." I choked out, tears stinging the corners of my eyes. "Oh, my god, sweetie..."
Mark lunged forward, grabbing my arm firmly, his knuckles white. "We're going inside," he hissed through clenched teeth, his voice dropping into a dangerous, desperate tone. "Right now. Both of you."
