Chapter 2 - The Name on the Ultrasound
"Linda, put that down!" Spencer called out, his voice dropping two octaves into a harsh, commanding bark that made the entire backyard go instantly silent.
The conversations stopped. My sister Susan lowered her phone. Spencer’s brother turned his head in confusion.
Spencer walked across the lawn toward the patio table with long, rapid strides, his arms reaching out as if he intended to snatch the cake right out of my hands.
"Mom, what is that?" Chloe asked again, stepping between Spencer and the table. She looked down at my trembling fingers, then caught sight of the white paper taped to the underside of the board. "Is that an envelope?"
"Don't touch it, Chloe!" Spencer snapped, his hand shooting out to grab Chloe’s wrist. His grip was tight enough that her knuckles turned white. "It’s nothing. It’s just bakery garbage from the delivery box. Linda, give it to me."
"Let go of her wrist, Spencer," I said. My voice was surprisingly calm, cold as ice, though my blood was boiling.
"Spencer, you're hurting me," Chloe whispered, pulling her arm back.
Spencer realized everyone was watching him. He instantly released her wrist, holding his hands up in a gesture of false innocence, though a bead of sweat was actively tracing down the side of his temple.
"I’m sorry, honey," Spencer said quickly, his voice smoothing over into an artificial, buttery tone. "I just don't want your mother ruining the party with trash left over from the caterers. Let me throw it out."
He reached for the cake board.
I didn't let him touch it. I slammed the cake board flat onto the table, reached underneath, and ripped the envelope free from the packing tape with a loud, violent CRACK.
"Linda!" Spencer shouted, stepping forward again.
My sister Susan immediately stepped into his path. "Spencer, back off! What is your problem?!"
"This is private family business!" Spencer yelled, his composure completely shattering in front of twenty guests. "It’s none of your business, Susan!"
I didn't listen to him. I looked down at the envelope in my hands. The black ink was clear, sharp, and hurried.
CHLOE PARKER — PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU GO HOME WITH SPENCER TODAY.
"Chloe," I said, handing the paper directly to my daughter. "Take this."
Chloe’s hands were shaking so hard she nearly dropped it. She looked at the handwriting, then up at Spencer, whose eyes were wide, bloodshot, and filled with a terrifying, desperate panic.
"Chloe, don't open that," Spencer pleaded, his voice cracking. "If you love me, if you trust me, you won't open that. It’s... it’s a sick prank from someone at my office. Someone who's trying to ruin our marriage."
"A prank?" I asked, stepping up beside my daughter. "A prank that you paid five hundred dollars to cover up at eight o'clock this morning at the bakery, Spencer?"
The entire backyard gasped.
Spencer froze. "What... what are you talking about?"
"Nora showed me the security footage," I said, my voice echoing across the quiet patio. "You were at Sweet Traditions Bakery this morning with a blonde woman in a cream coat. You paid five hundred dollars to change the cake filling to pink, after replacing the doctor’s original envelope."
Chloe stopped unsealing the flap. She looked at Spencer as if she had never seen his face before in her life.
"You... you changed the cake?" Chloe whispered. Her voice was barely audible. "The doctor said... the doctor said the baby was a boy?"
"Chloe, listen to me—" Spencer began, taking a step toward her.
"IS THE BABY A BOY, SPENCER?!" Chloe screamed, her voice exploding into an agonizing shriek that echoed off the wooden fence.
Spencer swallowed hard. He couldn't speak. He couldn't lie. The weight of twenty people staring at him held him in place like a vise.
Chloe tears open the top of the envelope.
Inside was a single folded sheet of paper from an official medical clinic in downtown Chicago, accompanied by a glossy printed ultrasound scan dated four days prior.
Chloe unfolded the document.
I looked over her shoulder.
At the top of the letterhead was the logo for Midwest Reproductive Health & Genetics.
The name on the patient record was not Chloe Parker.
It was Julianna Vance.
Below the patient details was an official genetic report:
GESTATIONAL AGE: 16 WEEKS.
SEX: FEMALE.
PATERNAL GENETIC MATCH: SPENCER THOMAS PARKER (99.9%).
Chloe let out a sound that will haunt me for the rest of my natural life—a dry, strangled, hollow gasp of pure, unfiltered devastation.
Beneath the medical document was a handwritten note on hotel stationery, written in the same sharp black ink:
Chloe,
Spencer told me he left you six months ago. He told me your pregnancies failed because you were unhinged and obsessed, and that you were using fake medical records to keep him trapped. He brought me to his family home in Indiana; he bought an apartment with me downtown; and he fathered my daughter, who is due in February.
When I found out yesterday that you were still living in his house, and that you were pregnant with his son, I realized every word out of his mouth was a lie. He paid me to give him my ultrasound report so he could trick you into thinking your baby was a girl—because he promised his father that his firstborn son would inherit the Parker Family Logistics Trust, and he intended to take your boy away from you the moment he was born.
Do not let him take your baby.
— Julianna.
The white paper fluttered out of Chloe’s hands, landing face-up on the grass near the edge of the patio table.
Spencer didn't move. He stood on the lawn like a stone statue, his mouth slightly open, staring at the white sheet lying in the grass.
Chloe looked up at him. The tears on her face had stopped. Her pale, devastated expression had transformed into something else entirely—something cold, sharp, and utterly merciless.
"Get off my mother's property, Spencer," Chloe whispered.
"Chloe, let me explain—" Spencer stammered, stepping forward with his hands out.
"GET OFF HER PROPERTY BEFORE I KILL YOU MYSELF!" Chloe screamed.
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My sister’s husband and Spencer’s own brother instantly stepped between Spencer and Chloe, grabbing Spencer by his arms and dragging him bodily toward the side gate, ignoring his frantic, pathetic yells as they threw him out onto the street.
I wrapped my arms around my daughter, holding her shivering body against mine as the backyard descended into complete chaos.
