At 6:12 the next morning, Sebastian called me.

I was already far from the hospital.

Valeria was driving while I sat in the back, watching over the four babies.

My phone vibrated again.

And again.

Twenty-three missed calls.

Then the messages began.

“Where are the children?”

“Elena, answer me.”

“Do you understand what you’ve done?”

Finally:

“Bring them back and I’ll forget everything.”

I almost laughed.

Forget everything.

As if he were still the person with the power to forgive.

I turned off the phone.

At the Foster mansion, however, panic had already exploded.

Valeria received updates from someone inside the household.

Sebastian’s mother had demanded that the hospital lock every exit.

His grandfather had summoned lawyers.

Clara had arrived before breakfast.

Apparently, she had expected her first morning as Sebastian’s official partner to be celebrated with champagne.

Instead, she found the Foster family arguing over four empty incubators.

But Sebastian’s greatest surprise came two hours later.

His attorney entered the mansion carrying the divorce agreement.

—There’s a problem.

Sebastian barely looked at him.

—Find Elena.

—This is about Elena.

The lawyer placed the contract on the table.

—The agreement you had her sign doesn’t grant the Foster family automatic custody.

Sebastian finally looked up.

—They’re my children.

—They’re also hers.

His mother interrupted.

—We have money. Fix it.

The lawyer remained silent.

That silence frightened them more than any answer.

Because money had solved almost every Foster problem for generations.

But this time, there was something they hadn’t investigated.

Me.

By noon, we reached a private medical residence several hours away.

A pediatric team was waiting.

I had arranged everything weeks before because I knew Sebastian would eventually choose Clara.

I just hadn’t expected him to do it while I was still recovering from childbirth.

The babies were examined immediately.

Only when the doctor assured me they were stable did I finally allow myself to sit.

Valeria placed the check for five hundred million on the table.

—What are you going to do with this?

I looked at Sebastian’s signature.

—Return most of it.

She stared at me.

—After everything?

—I don’t want him telling the world I sold my children for money.

I kept only the amount my lawyer confirmed was legally mine under the agreement.

Then I transferred the rest back.

The transaction note contained five words.

“Divorce accepted. Motherhood is not.”

Sebastian called within thirty seconds.

This time, I answered.

—Where are they?

No greeting.

No question about my recovery.

Only the heirs.

—Safe.

—Bring them home.

—They are home.

His breathing changed.

—Elena, don’t test me.

—You already tested me for three years.

—My grandfather will never allow this.

I smiled.

—Then perhaps your grandfather should read the documents more carefully than you did.

Silence.

—What documents?

I ended the call.

That afternoon, Sebastian learned.

His lawyer had finally requested the babies’ complete registration records.

All four listed me as their mother.

That wasn’t surprising.

The surprise was the second file attached to them.

A prenuptial agreement.

Sebastian had signed it three years earlier without reading the final amendments.

He had been too busy taking a call from Clara.

One clause stated clearly that neither spouse could unilaterally determine custody or remove the other parent’s rights through financial compensation.

His five hundred million had purchased a divorce.

Nothing more.

That evening, my own lawyer arrived.

But he didn’t come alone.

An elderly man stepped from the second car.

When I saw him, I stood despite the discomfort.

—Grandfather?

Not Sebastian’s grandfather.

Mine.

Arthur Morris.

For years, the Foster family believed “Morris” belonged to an ordinary middle-class family.

Sebastian had never bothered to ask why I refused expensive jewelry.

Why I understood investment contracts.

Why I could identify every executive at his business dinners without introductions.

Arthur Morris had built a medical investment group across three countries.

I had walked away from it at twenty-six.

I wanted a life that belonged to me.

Then I met Sebastian.

My grandfather looked at the babies.

His eyes softened.

—Four?

—Four.

He shook his head.

—You always did everything excessively.

For the first time in days, I laughed.

Then his expression became serious.

—The Fosters contacted me.

I froze.

—They know?

—Not yet.

He placed a folder on the table.

—But they will.

Inside were corporate records.

I read the first page.

Then the second.

My smile disappeared.

—This can’t be right.

—It is.

The Foster Group had been negotiating emergency financing for months.

Their expansion had left them dangerously overextended.

And the investment fund scheduled to decide their future belonged indirectly to Morris Medical Holdings.

My grandfather tapped the document.

—Sebastian thinks he paid you to disappear from his empire.

He looked at me.

—He doesn’t know his empire is coming to us asking for money.

The next morning, Sebastian walked into the Foster Group boardroom.

His father was there.

His grandfather.

Clara.

Every senior director.

At the opposite end sat representatives of the investment fund.

Sebastian took his seat.

—Where is Mr. Morris?

The door opened.

My grandfather entered first.

Then Valeria.

And finally me.

Sebastian stood so quickly his chair rolled backward.

—Elena?

Clara’s face went white.

His grandfather frowned.

—Why is she here?

Arthur calmly pulled out the chair beside him for me.

—Because Ms. Morris is the controlling beneficiary of the trust considering your financing request.

Nobody spoke.

Sebastian stared at me as though the woman he’d discarded in the hospital had been replaced overnight.

I sat down carefully.

—Good morning, Sebastian.

His lips parted.

But before he could speak, the conference-room door opened again.

My lawyer entered carrying a sealed envelope.

He placed it in front of me.

—The additional hospital records you requested.

I frowned.

—Additional records?

He nodded.

—Concerning the four babies.

Sebastian immediately stepped forward.

—What about my children?

The lawyer looked at him.

Then at me.

—That’s precisely the issue.

He opened the envelope.

—Mrs. Morris, the hospital discovered a discrepancy in the fertility-clinic records used before your pregnancy.

My fingers went cold.

Sebastian stopped moving.

And Clara suddenly dropped the glass she was holding.

Everyone turned toward her.

She looked terrified.

Too terrified.

My lawyer slowly raised his eyes.

—It appears someone altered the original records before the embryos were transferred.

I stared at Clara.

She took one step backward.

And suddenly, the battle over Sebastian Foster’s four heirs became something far more dangerous.

Because Clara already knew what the altered records contained.