Él puso su teléfono sobre la mesa.
A scanned document appeared on the screen.
My name.
Blake’s name.
A fertility treatment authorization form.
The signature at the bottom was supposed to be mine.
Excepto que no lo era.
—Eso está falsificado —dije inmediatamente.
Blake asintió.
“It authorizes genetic selection procedures.”
I felt nauseated.
Julian leaned over the phone.
“Selection for what?”
Blake’s voice became emotionless.
“The Harrington marker.”
I grabbed the back of the couch to steady myself.
“Are you saying they manipulated my pregnancy?”
“We don’t know how far it went,” Blake replied. “But Vanessa believed Eli was chosen.”
My thoughts rushed back to my pregnancy.
The complications.
The bleeding at eleven weeks.
The doctor I couldn’t remember choosing.
The nurse who refused to meet my eyes.
I had believed I was simply unlucky.
Perhaps someone had been manipulating the situation.
Perhaps my sons had been treated like assets before they had even been born.
