18. TRUTH #4
“Tired,” I said. “Nauseous. The usual.”
Dr. Beaumont nodded, but her hands were shaking as she pulled on her gloves.
She was terrified.
And that terrified me.
“I want to talk about DNA testing,” I said, my voice firm.
Dr. Beaumont’s eyes darted to Amai, then back to me. “Of course. We can arrange for amniocentesis, but there are risks—”
“I don’t care about the risks. I need to know whose baby I’m carrying, thanks to your ass.”
“We can also wait until after birth for a non-invasive test—”
“I’m not waiting.”
Dr. Beaumont swallowed hard. “Understood. Let me just do the ultrasound first, and then we can discuss the options.”
She moved the machine into position, and I lay back, lifting my dress to expose my stomach.
The gel was cold against my skin.
Dr. Beaumont pressed the wand against my abdomen, and the screen flickered to life.
At first, there was just static. Gray and white shapes that didn’t make sense.
And then—
A heartbeat.
Fast. Strong. Steady.
I stared at the screen, my chest tightening.
“There’s the baby,” Dr. Beaumont said softly, pointing to a small shape on the screen.
And then she moved the wand slightly.
Another heartbeat.
My breath caught.
“Wait,” I said, my voice barely audible. “What—”
Dr. Beaumont’s expression shifted. She moved the wand again, more deliberately this time, and the screen showed two distinct shapes.
Two heartbeats.
“Ms. Renois,” Dr. Beaumont said carefully, “you’re carrying twins.”
The world tilted.
“What?” My voice cracked.
“Twins. Two babies. Both appear healthy and developing normally.”
I couldn’t breathe.
Twins.
Not one baby.
Two.
I turned to look at Amai, and his expression was unreadable—shock, maybe, or something deeper. Something I couldn’t name.
“How—” I started, but the words wouldn’t come.
“It’s not uncommon with IVF,” Dr. Beaumont explained. “Sometimes multiple embryos implant successfully.”
Multiple embryos.
Multiple specimens.
Oh God.
“I need the DNA test,” I said, my voice shaking. “Now. I need to know—”
The exam room door opened.
I turned, expecting a nurse.
But it wasn’t a nurse.
It was Winston Landry.
And standing beside him, her hand resting lightly on his arm, was a woman I’d never seen before.
She was beautiful—strikingly so. Dark skin, sharp cheekbones, full lips painted a deep red. She wore a cream-colored dress that hugged her curves, and her eyes—cold, calculating—swept over me with the kind of assessment that made my skin crawl.
“Well,” Winston said, his voice smooth and unbothered. “Isn’t this a lovely family moment.”
My heart stopped.
Dr. Beaumont went rigid, her face draining of color.
Amai moved immediately, stepping between me and his father, his body a wall of controlled fury.
“Get out,” Amai said, his voice deadly quiet.
Winston smiled. “I don’t think so.”
The woman beside him tilted her head slightly, her gaze landing on me with something that looked like pity.
Or maybe contempt.
“You must be Truth,” she said, her voice soft and melodic. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
I stared at her, my mind racing, trying to piece together who she was and why she was here.
And then Winston spoke again, and the ground fell out from under me.
“Truth, allow me to introduce my daughter-in-law,” he said, his smile widening. “Yahmaria Landry. Amai’s wife.”
The words hit like a physical blow, but before I could process them, Winston’s gaze shifted to the ultrasound screen behind me—the two heartbeats, the two tiny forms—and his smile turned predatory.
“An heir and a spare,” he said, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “How convenient.”
The room tilted.
Heir and a spare.
Not babies. Not children. Not lives.
Assets.
Strategic pieces in whatever sick game this family was playing.
The twins weren’t about love or family or even legacy in the way I’d understood it.
They were insurance. Backup. A guarantee that the Landry bloodline would continue no matter what happened.
One to inherit. One to replace if necessary. Cold. Calculated. Efficient.
And I was the incubator who’d provided them.
The surveillance, the control, the way Amai moved through my life like he owned it—it wasn’t obsession.
It was obligation. He was married. He was married, and he’d never told me.
Not once. Not when he was inside me, not when he held me while I threw up, not when he promised to keep me safe.
And this woman—this beautiful, cold woman with her red lips and her pity—she was his wife.
She was here with Winston, which meant they’d planned this, which meant the appointment, the ultrasound, Winston’s comment about heirs—all of it was orchestrated.
I wasn’t being protected. I was being managed.
Controlled. Played. Everything I thought I was building with him, every moment I’d let my guard down, every time I’d believed him when he said I was his—it was all built on a foundation of lies so deep I couldn’t see the bottom.
I turned to Amai, my vision blurring, my chest heaving, and locked eyes with him.
“What the fuck, Amai?”