These conclusions were changed.”
Weston had known.
From the first year, he had known that the problem was his, and that the solution was a simple, common one — donor sperm, a path thousands of couples take.
But that path required him to say a true sentence out loud: the problem is me. And Weston would sooner have burned my life to the ground than say it.
So he did.
He paid someone at the clinic to rewrite the records, rebranded his flaw as mine, and let me spend four years believing I was the broken one — because a woman who believes she’s broken is a woman who will sign whatever you put in front of her.
The infertility had never been a tragedy.
It had been a tool.
Chapter 9 — The Money Trail
Once I could see one lie clearly, the others came into focus like a photograph developing.