My phone buzzed.
It was a message from my lawyer, Harrison.
The trap is set. They just walked into the clinic.
While I drove away, Bradley was heading toward what he believed would be the happiest day of his life.
He had no idea everything was already collapsing.
At the Hope Reproductive Health Center, Bradley’s mother, Margaret, treated Tiffany like royalty. Tiffany sat in a designer maternity dress, smiling smugly as Brittany handed her expensive organic juices.
“Our heir deserves the best,” Brittany said.
Bradley stood by the window, full of pride.
“Of course he’ll be perfect,” he said. “He’s my son.”
When the nurse called Tiffany in for the ultrasound, Bradley went with her. The room was quiet except for the hum of the machine.
The doctor moved the probe across Tiffany’s stomach and stared at the monitor.
He did not smile.
He measured again.
