I stood frozen beside the vanity table, the cold weight of the phone heavy in my palm as the glowing text burned into my eyes. The screen illuminated the dim corners of the room, casting a harsh light over an image attachment I never expected to see again.
It was a scanned copy of my old pregnancy intake form from that hidden clinic in Chicago five years ago. My face was clearly visible in the attached file, right next to the old alias I had used to survive—Chloe Valentine.
The date stamped on the document was the exact week the entire world, including a grieving Asher, believed I was dead.
Beneath the image, the text read:
"A big night for the Reed family at the academy gala tonight. I wonder how the school board—and the national medical licensing division—will react when they receive these forged Chicago files proving the city's favorite surgeon is a legal fraud? Have a wonderful evening, Doctor. I'll see you there."
