Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Juliette
The fertility clinic didn’t smell like a clinic.
The aroma was a delightful blend of citrus water and lavender diffuser oil, creating an almost overwhelming sense of tranquility. However, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being slightly judged for my second-day blowout and half a tube of concealer.
The waiting room was absurdly nice—quiet, sun-drenched, all soft neutrals and curated art that made it feel more like a boutique spa than a place where people came to interrogate their ovaries.
I signed in at the front desk and slid the clipboard into my lap. Name. Date of birth. How long had I been off birth control? I hesitated. Then wrote: One Week.
A couple was sitting two chairs over, whisper-fighting like they thought the Ficus tree between us gave them privacy. I tried not to listen—but she kept hissing phrases like “we said we’d wait” and “your mother doesn’t get a vote.”
I shifted my weight and glanced around. I was the only one here alone, weirdly, which made me sit up straighter.
I hadn’t told Gabrielle I made the appointment.
Hadn’t told Damian. And definitely hadn’t mentioned it to the Coral Gables estate manager, who assumed I lived and breathed 19th-century French bronzes.
“Sorry, can’t evaluate your heirlooms today—I’m reevaluating my uterus,” didn’t seem to be the right tone.
The pen hovered over the box labeled Reason for Visit. But there wasn’t one for ‘mild existential panic and a clock I’m still not sure is ticking’. So I checked: Consultation – Fertility Evaluation
I stared at it for a second longer than necessary.
I wasn’t here to make a baby. I was here to find out if I still had the pieces to even build one.
The nurse called my name, and I stood. My knees didn’t buckle. My hands didn’t shake. But I walked like a woman who wasn’t ready to say why she was there out loud—just ready to hear it.
And maybe… ready to know what happened next.
The consultation room looked more like a boutique therapist’s office than anything medical—plush chairs, an abstract painting on the wall, a table with a well-organized stack of wellness books I had zero intention of reading.
Not a stirrup or sterile swab in sight. Just me, perched on the edge of a slate blue armchair, trying not to feel like I’d wandered into the wrong appointment and couldn’t find the exit.
The door opened, and in walked Dr. Mariana Klein—a woman in her sixties with silver-streaked curls, tortoiseshell glasses, and the kind of energy that said she could deliver good news or bad news without flinching and then recommend a really excellent wine pairing afterward.
She smiled like we already knew each other. “Juliette Vanderburg?”
“That’s me,” I said, standing and shaking her hand.
“Have a seat. I read your file. Congratulations on finishing your PhD.” Her voice was warm, low, and easy—chamomile tea with a dry chardonnay finish.
“Thanks,” I said. “Now I’m just hoping my body hasn’t aged faster than my résumé.”
That earned me a smirk from her. “Well, that’s what we’re here to find out.”
She opened my chart and tapped a pen against the tablet screen.
“First things first,” she said, scanning. “You’ve been on birth control pills. You mentioned this morning you took your last one seven days ago?”
“Correct,” I said. “I’ve been on them for years.”
“Then we’ll need to wait three to four weeks before we run full diagnostics. That includes hormone panels, ovarian reserve markers, and ultrasounds.”
I blinked. “That long?”
“It’s not ideal,” she said. “But we need a clean hormonal slate. Otherwise, the results could be misleading. I know it feels like wasted time, but trust me—it’s better than chasing inaccurate data.”
I nodded slowly. “Okay. Just didn’t expect that part.”
“No one ever does,” she said gently. “But it gives us a window to talk about next steps. If it turns out you do need assistance, I like my patients to understand their options early.”
“Lay it on me,” I said. “What does modern fertility look like?”
“Modern fertility,” she said with a wry smile, “looks a lot like an upscale boutique with a genetics lab in the back. If we determine natural conception isn’t likely—or isn’t ideal based on your goals—then IVF is the next step.
And if you don’t have a male partner, or don’t want one involved, we’ll look at sperm donation. ”
I tried to nod like her words weren’t a punch in the chest.
“There are two paths,” she continued. “Anonymous donor or known donor. Anonymous is our most common route. You choose from a secure, medically screened database. Donors are required to pass genetic testing, STI panels, psychological screenings—some even submit childhood photos or writing samples.”
“That’s… thorough.”
“It has to be. Some are grad students. Some are engineers. Some are married men doing it on the side for the money, or because they think it’s their contribution to humanity.” She said it without judgment. Just facts.
“And the known donor route?” I asked.
She folded her hands. “Legally complicated. If you ask someone you know, we require separate legal counsel, a written agreement, and psychiatric clearance for both parties. There are long-term emotional and custodial implications to consider.”
I swallowed. “So… either way, it’s not exactly a rom-com montage.”
“No,” she said, “but it’s yours. And that’s what matters.”
I didn’t have anything clever to say to that. Because it was… a lot. All of it. The science, the legal stuff, the sobering realization that creating a family could come down to a few filters and a digital login.
Apparently, modern motherhood came with a menu. You just had to choose the vintage.
I didn’t open the catalog at the clinic. Dr. Klein had handed me the access code at the end of the appointment with a reassuring smile, the kind you give someone before you push them into traffic.
“No pressure,” she’d said. “Browse if you’re curious. You don’t have to make any decisions now. You don’t even have your testing done yet. This is just to give you an idea of your options if you need to go the IVF route.”
But of course, once I got home and kicked off my sandals, the curiosity festered.
The code was still scribbled on the back of a referral form in my bag. I tried to ignore it. Made tea. Watered the herbs. Checked my email.
And still, it sat there. Tucked between “New Client Inquiry–Coral Gables Estate” and a flash sale alert from a boutique I hadn’t shopped at since grad school.
I pulled it out. Logged in.
Welcome to LifeTree Genetics.
A few clicks later, the screen filled with neatly cropped childhood photos and bio blurbs in matching fonts that looked like they’d been designed by someone who once sold furniture for Restoration Hardware.
Donor 19742: “I’m passionate about languages and literature. I want to help others start families with hope and intention.”
Donor 21105: “I believe kindness is inherited.”
Donor 19863: photo unavailable — but his “personal essay” was clearly written by ChatGPT and a sugar crash.
I scrolled.
And then I stopped.
Donor 19284.
The writing sample hit first—sharp, clever, bordering on smug.
“Legacy isn’t built by accident. I believe in clarity, curiosity, and continuity. My favorite hobby is yachting.”
My stomach flipped.
I skimmed the rest. University of Miami undergrad. Business background. Fluent in French and German. Athletic. Tall.
I blinked at the childhood photo—light hair, a grin that was all mischief and charm, even at six years old. It was blurry, a little too perfect. But I’d seen that exact brand of smirk… in my pool. In my bed. In my kitchen, pouring wine like he was born to own the place.
Oh my God.
I backed out of the profile. Scrolled forward. Then back.
Donor 19284 .
No name. No location. Just the kind of data that looked sterile on the page but hit like a sucker punch when you realized who it belonged to.
“For the love of God…”
I dropped the phone on the counter and stared at the ceiling, like the drywall had answers.
And then—because it was the only sane response—I started laughing.
Low at first. Then louder. Messy, hysterical, tears-pricking-the-corner-of-my-eyes kind of laughter. I said out loud to the room. “Of course, Damian Sinclair would try to repopulate the planet from a cryogenic lab.”
I swiped the screen back on, stared at the profile one more time, and let the absurdity settle.
I wasn’t even mad. I was intrigued—that was a problem.
I spotted Gabrielle’s car in the garage, and Anthony’s was conspicuously absent. Perfect.
I thumbed out a quick text.
Juliette: Come over. I need to talk. Bring Julian. Don’t bring judgment.
She replied two seconds later:
Gabrielle: Are you dying? Or just overly dramatic again?
Juliette: Not dying. Just… medically unsettled.
Gabrielle: Oh, Jesus. On my way.
Five minutes later, she walked into my guesthouse like she owned it, baby on her hip and eyebrows already raised.
Julian gave me a gummy smile and reached for my necklace. Gabrielle just tilted her head.
“Should I be worried?”
“Only if you believe in fate, irony, and karmic sperm banks,” I said, locking the door behind her.
She blinked. “You’re gonna have to run that sentence back.”
I handed her a glass of wine and took a long sip from mine. “You have to swear not to tell Anthony. Or anyone. I mean it, Gabby. I’ll know if you do. I’ll feel it in the twin portal.”
She smirked. “Cross my ovaries. Now, tell me what’s going on.”
I let the words come out in order—first the appointment, the doctor, the annoying hormone wait. The delay in testing. The doctor’s clinical voice. The legal disclaimers.
Gabrielle listened closely, her face carefully still.
“And then,” I said, voice lowering, “I logged into the donor catalog.”
She set down her wine. “You what?”
“I wasn’t going to. I was just… curious. Killing time. You know me—I emotionally spiral through research.”
“And?”
I took another sip. “I found someone. A Miami Hurricane. Fluent in French and German. Business background. Childhood photo that looked like his PR team airbrushed it. Favorite hobby?” I paused. “Yachting.”
Gabrielle’s mouth opened.
I nodded.
She whispered, “You think it’s Damian?”
“I don’t think,” I said. “I know .”
She blinked again, slower this time. “You’re sure?”
“I’d bet my vintage Chanel bag and a month of orgasms on it.”
She let out a strangled noise. “Why would a man like Damian donate sperm?”
“I asked myself the same thing,” I said, setting down my glass. “And then I laughed. Out loud. Because it’s so him, reproduce without responsibility? Spread his legacy through a cryogenic filing cabinet? Honestly, it’s probably in his will.”
Gabrielle snorted. “Of course, he’d want his lineage floating in a temperature-controlled vault.”
“Exactly.” I sat down hard on the couch. “I just… I wasn’t ready for that. Seeing him in that context. It’s clinical, but it felt… intimate.”
We were both quiet for a second. Julian mumbled something in toddler-ese and reached for his mom’s watch.
Gabrielle looked at me seriously. “So… do you know what you’re going to do?”
I stared out the window. The sun was low as the palm fronds swayed like they didn’t have a care in the world.
“No,” I said slowly. “I don’t. I’m not even sure what the question is yet.”
She sat beside me, her hand warm as it wrapped around mine. “Then don’t rush the answer.”
I nodded, my eyes still on the breeze, still trying to quiet the noise in my chest. “I just didn’t expect to find him… there. I thought I was walking into the future alone. But now he’s... already part of it. In the most Sinclair way possible.”
Gabrielle was quiet for a beat. Then she gave me a side-eye smirk. “So this is my fault?”
“Oh, completely,” I said, turning toward her. “You’re the one who told me to get checked out. You’re the one who dragged our inherited mystery uteruses into the conversation. If I end up pregnant by accident through a sperm bank that includes my billionaire situationship? That’s on you .”
She laughed, full and loud. “Please. If we’re assigning blame, we both know who really deserves it.”
We said it at the same time: “ Mom. ”
Gabrielle snorted. “God, she would hate this conversation.”
“Which is exactly why we’re having it.”
We both laughed, the kind of laugh that releases more than it adds, and I let my head rest briefly against her shoulder. Julian babbled something in his toddler dialect and tossed a pacifier under my coffee table like it had personally offended him.
“You’re gonna be fine,” Gabrielle said.
I wasn’t sure if she meant about Damian, or fertility, or the whole mess of it—but I nodded anyway. “Yeah. I will.”
Eventually.
But in the meantime, at least I had wine.
And someone else to blame.