Seven Months Pregnant, None of the Triplets Were Mine

The next evening, Sterling Biotech’s private celebration banquet appeared all over the group chat.

Julian had not invited me. He had not even mentioned it. In his mind, I was too pregnant to attend, too weak to ask questions, and too obedient to go anywhere without permission.

That was fine.

By the time the first photos appeared, I was already checked into a private hospital under a different name.

The banquet was held in a luxury hotel owned by the Sterling family. Publicly, it was a celebration of Sterling Biotech’s newest medical partnership. The photos showed crystal lights, white flowers, champagne towers, and investors smiling beneath the company logo.

Vanessa stood beside Julian in a pale gold dress.

Miranda Cross appeared in the next photo, holding a glass of champagne as if Sterling Biotech already belonged partly to her. Not far from them stood Helena Gray, Celeste’s aunt and the representative of the Gray family foundation. She wore black pearls and a cold smile.

Three women connected to three babies.

And Julian stood among them like a man receiving congratulations.

A nurse entered my room to check my blood pressure. She glanced at my phone, then quickly looked away.

“You can still wait for further confirmation,” she said gently. “But waiting carries risk.”

“I know.”

“The procedure is dangerous at this stage.”

“I know that too.”

My voice was calmer than hers.

The latest test results had worsened faster than expected. The doctor could not promise that immediate treatment would save me, but his warning was clear: if I forced my body to carry the triplets any longer, I might lose the chance to fight at all.

Julian wanted me to last until delivery.

I wanted to live.

At eight forty-three, a video appeared in the group chat.

It was taken inside a private VIP room behind the banquet hall. The public speeches were over. The respectable guests had left. Julian’s closest friends sat around a long table with champagne, cards, and desserts scattered between them.

Someone laughed. “Since tonight is such a good day, let’s make it more exciting. Which baby comes out first?”

Another person immediately said, “I bet on Celeste’s. Come on, Julian waited this many years to keep her bloodline. Fate has to favor her.”

Miranda smiled in the video. “Fate is unreliable. Money is not. I’ll bet fifty million on mine.”

The room burst into laughter.

Vanessa leaned against Julian’s shoulder and said lazily, “Then I’ll bet on my son. Julian always gives me the best.”

Everyone began teasing them.

Julian did not push her away.

He lifted his glass and said, “One hundred million. Vanessa’s child will be first.”

I watched the video from the hospital bed with one hand resting on the curve of my stomach.

Someone joked that my belly looked terrifyingly large. Another said it was lucky I was quiet and obedient, because any other woman might have caused trouble by now. A man whose face I barely remembered laughed and called me Sterling Biotech’s most successful incubator.

Vanessa pretended to scold him, but her eyes were smiling.

“She only needs to last a little longer,” she said. “After that, everyone gets what they want.”

Julian’s answer was steady.

“She will.”

The video ended in laughter.

For a while, I stared at the dark screen. I did not feel surprised anymore. I only felt strangely distant, as if I were watching people discuss the fate of a woman who had already died.

Then I downloaded the video before anyone could delete it and sent it directly to Luca’s lawyer.

Use this as evidence.

The reply came less than a minute later.

Received. Everything is ready.

I turned off the phone and placed it beside the bed.

A few minutes later, the nurse knocked and came in.

“Mrs. Hart,” she said softly, “the operating room is ready.”

I looked down at my stomach for the last time.

“Let’s go.”

The procedure began shortly after nine.

The pain was worse than I had imagined, but I did not beg them to stop. There were white lights above me, gloved hands, the doctor’s low instructions, and the nurse wiping sweat from my face. At one point, I tasted blood in my mouth and realized I had bitten down too hard.

I thought of Julian raising his glass.

I thought of Vanessa smiling against his shoulder.

I thought of the word gestational carrier printed beside my name.

When I opened my eyes again, the room was dim.

My stomach was no longer heavy.

The emptiness was so sudden that I could not move for several seconds. Then the pain returned, deep and raw, and with it came the memory of what I had chosen.

A nurse checked my blood pressure and adjusted the IV drip. Her movements were quiet and professional.

“The procedure is over,” she said. “You need to rest.”

I stared at the ceiling for a long moment.

I did not ask where the triplets were. I did not ask to see anything.

There was nothing left for me to see.

Before midnight, Luca’s lawyer arrived with the four packages I had ordered him to prepare.

They were not ordinary gift boxes.

Three of them contained sealed medical preservation containers, each one marked with an embryo number, a hospital code, and the name of the woman who had claimed that child before it was even born.

Vanessa Lane.

Miranda Cross.

Celeste Gray.

Inside each container was the dead fetus that belonged to them.

Along with it, I placed the embryo ownership record, the custody draft, and the fetal death certificate.

Julian’s package was different.

His contained the divorce agreement he had signed with his own hand, my cancer report, the medical authorization form, and copies of all three death certificates.

The lawyer asked quietly, “Are you sure you want them delivered to the banquet?”

I looked at the frozen video on my phone: Julian raising his glass, Vanessa leaning against his shoulder, everyone laughing as they bet on which baby would be born first.

“Yes,” I said. “Let them receive their children while they’re still celebrating.”

Then I picked up the pen and wrote the sender’s name on every package myself.

Amelia Hart.

Not Sterling.

At the banquet, Julian was making the final toast when the VIP room door opened.

The hotel manager stepped inside first, anxious and apologetic. Behind him was a courier carrying four sealed packages.

The laughter around the table faded, but not completely. No one was afraid yet. They had not learned to be afraid of me.

“Sorry to interrupt,” the manager said. “There are urgent deliveries requiring signatures.”

Julian lowered his glass.

The courier checked the labels one by one.

“Miss Vanessa Lane. Miss Miranda Cross. Mrs. Helena Gray. And Mr. Julian Sterling.”

Vanessa’s smile froze.

Miranda frowned.

Helena Gray slowly set down her champagne glass.

Julian stared at the package placed in front of him. For the first time that night, the ease on his face disappeared.

The sender’s name was written clearly on the label.

Amelia Hart.