The envelope sat on my husband's desk like a coiled snake, cream-colored and innocent, but I knew better. After twelve years of marriage, I'd learned to recognize the weight of betrayal before I even touched it. "Katherine, please sit down." Marcus's voice carried that careful tone he used when closing business deals—calm, measured, completely devoid of the warmth that used to make my name sound like a prayer. I remained standing, my Louboutins planted firmly on the Persian rug we'd chosen together in Istanbul. The irony wasn't lost on me. We'd bought it during our second anniversary trip, back when I still believed in us. Back when I thought the fertility treatments would work. Back when I trusted my stepsister. "Just tell me," I said, meeting his eyes. Those steel-gray eyes that used to look at me like I hung the moon now couldn't quite meet my gaze. The door to his study opened, and she walked in. Elena. Of course it was Elena. It was always Elena. She wore a flowing cream dress that hugged a small but unmistakable bump at her midsection. Five months along, if I had to guess. My medical background made such estimations automatic, clinical. What wasn't clinical was the way my heart stopped beating for three full seconds. "Katie," she said, using the nickname she knew I hated. Her hand—adorned with our grandmother's ring that should have been mine—rested protectively on her stomach. "I know this is hard, but—" "Don't." The word came out sharp enough to cut. "Don't you dare stand there and pretend this is hard for you." Marcus stood, running his hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. At forty-five, he was still devastatingly handsome. It's what had attracted me to him at twenty-three, fresh out of medical school and naive enough to believe that successful men in their thirties chose younger women for love rather than control. "We need to discuss the arrangement," he said, gesturing to the envelope. "My lawyers have drafted a custody agreement." I laughed. Actually laughed. The sound echoed off the mahogany walls of his precious study, bouncing back at me like mockery. "Custody? Of what, exactly?" Elena's hand trembled slightly on her stomach. Good. Let her be afraid. She should be. "Of our child," Marcus said. "Technically, biologically, it's yours and mine. The embryo was created from your egg and my—" "The embryo you stole." I picked up the envelope, my hands steady despite the rage building in my chest like a tsunami. "The embryo that was taken from the fertility clinic where I stored them. The embryo that was implanted in my stepsister without my knowledge or consent." "That's not exactly how it happened," Elena interjected, her voice taking on that wheedling quality that had manipulated our parents for twenty years. "The clinic made an error, and when I went in for my own fertility consultation—" "Stop lying." I turned to face her fully, watching her flinch. "You've been lying since we were eight years old. When you copied my science fair project and won first place while I was disqualified for 'plagiarism.' When you stole my college boyfriend by telling him I'd been cheating. When you convinced Mom and Dad that I'd stolen money from their safe to pay for medical school, forcing me to take out loans I'm still paying off." "You've always been paranoid," Elena said, but her voice wavered. "Always so jealous—" "I have emails," I interrupted, opening my phone. "From Dr. Richardson at the clinic. He was very forthcoming once I threatened to file a malpractice suit. You paid him fifty thousand dollars to 'accidentally' give you access to my embryos. You specifically requested the one with the highest viability rating." The color drained from Marcus's face. "Elena said it was a clerical error." "Elena lied. Again." I scrolled through my phone, finding the PDF I'd saved. "She also lied about her fertility issues. She's perfectly capable of conceiving naturally. She just wanted my baby. My embryo. My last chance at biological motherhood, because I had a hysterectomy last year due to cancer." That last part still hurt to say.