PART 3: The Signature I Never Made
When I regained consciousness, the first thing I heard was the steady sound of a monitor.
I tried to move, but an intense pain shot through my abdomen. Instinctively I put a hand to my belly.
It was empty.
“My baby!” I cried. “Where’s my son?”
Warren appeared at my bedside immediately. His eyes were red, and he looked as though he had aged ten years in a single night.
“Natalie, listen to me. Your son is alive.”
I started crying before he could continue.
“The doctors were able to stabilize him after the birth. He’s in the neonatal intensive care unit because he needs help breathing and very close monitoring.”
“Can I see him?”
“As soon as the doctors feel it’s safe to move you.”
Warren sat down beside me and took my hand.
“I’m sorry it took me so long to find you,” he murmured. “But I promise you won’t be alone again.”
Hours later, a nurse wheeled me into the NICU. My little boy lay inside an incubator, surrounded by monitors and impossibly tiny tubes. His chest rose and fell in quick, shallow movements, and each one felt like a miracle.
I gently rested my hand against the glass.
“Mommy’s here, sweetheart. I’m not going to leave you.”
Then I heard footsteps behind me.
It was Vance.
He wore an immaculate suit and a carefully arranged expression of worry. Not a single hair was out of place, and I noticed absurdly that he still smelled faintly of champagne.
“Natalie, thank God you’re okay,” he announced. “I’ve been desperate looking for you.”
I watched him without saying a word.
Warren appeared at my side, silent until that moment.
“Interesting,” he replied coldly. “Because the records show you were at a celebration while my daughter needed urgent help.”
The color drained from Vance’s face.
“Mr. Sterling, this is all a misunderstanding.”
“We also have proof that you received certified mail addressed to Natalie.”
My husband took a step back, his polished shoes squeaking on the floor.
“I was only trying to protect her from news that could upset her during the pregnancy.”
I felt a rage I had never known, one that rose from somewhere beneath the pain and the exhaustion.
“You left me alone, Vance. And now I find out you also decided to hide who my father was.”
Warren asked hospital security to escort Vance out of the unit while the circumstances were sorted out. Vance went, glancing back once at the incubator, and not with longing. It looked more like calculation.
That afternoon, my father returned with his attorney. He had changed into a fresh shirt, but the sleeplessness still clung to him.
“Natalie, there’s something else you need to know. The letters didn’t only contain information about our family relationship. They also included documents regarding a trust that was created for you.”
The attorney opened a folder.
“Someone recently filed a petition to obtain authority to manage certain assets that may belong to you.”
“Who?” I asked.
Warren set a sheet of paper in front of me.
The petitioner was Vance Mercer.
But what left me completely paralyzed was the authorization attached to it.
It bore my name, and a signature that imitated mine perfectly.
The date was that very morning.
The exact time I had been unconscious in the operating room, fighting to survive.
And the document stated that I had voluntarily handed Vance control over all of my future inheritance rights.
