Chapter 3 The Sweet Trap

The changes in Daniel began the morning after I told him about the pregnancy.

I had prepared myself for cool satisfaction, perhaps a business-like discussion about medical arrangements and timeline optimization. Instead, I was greeted at breakfast by a man I barely recognized—one who pulled out my chair, insisted on making my tea himself (having apparently memorized my preference for peppermint over ginger), and asked detailed questions about my sleep quality.

"I've cleared your hospital schedule for the morning," he announced, setting a plate of protein-rich foods before me. "The first trimester is critical for neural development."

I stared at him. "You can't just clear my schedule. I have patients."

"Dr. Cole has agreed to take your surgical cases," Daniel replied smoothly. "I spoke with him last night."

"You spoke to my colleague without consulting me first?" I felt my temper rising. "This is exactly the kind of controlling behavior—"

"I've also arranged for the top maternal-fetal medicine specialist in New York to see you today," he continued as if I hadn't spoken. "Dr. Abernathy has experience with high-risk pregnancies."

"This isn't a high-risk pregnancy," I countered.

Daniel's gaze was steady. "Every pregnancy carrying such precious cargo is high-risk."

The way he said "precious cargo" sent an uncomfortable chill through me. Not our baby. Not our child. But cargo—a delivery package for Sophie's salvation.

Yet over the days that followed, Daniel's behavior continued to confound me. He installed an air purification system in every room of the house. He replaced all our household products with non-toxic alternatives. He even fired a gardener for using conventional pesticides near the kitchen herb garden.

Most surprisingly, he began coming home early from work, appearing in my laboratory or study with vitamin shakes and prenatal supplements.

"You need to take these at precisely the same time each day," he explained, personally measuring out the dosage one evening. "Consistency maximizes absorption."

I accepted the glass vial, studying the amber liquid. "What's in this? It looks different from the prenatal vitamins my obstetrician prescribed."

"A proprietary blend," Daniel said, watching as I raised it to my lips. "Developed by Kingsley Pharmaceuticals specifically for optimal fetal development. The standard prenatals miss several key micronutrients."

I paused, the vial millimeters from my mouth. "Has this been FDA approved?"

A flicker of impatience crossed his face. "It's a supplement, not a drug. The ingredients are all GRAS-certified."

Generally Recognized As Safe—a classification that still allowed for considerable latitude. I set the vial down.

"I think I'll stick with the standard prenatal vitamins, thank you."

Something dangerous flashed in his eyes. "Bella, this isn't about your independence. This is about giving our child—and by extension, Sophie—the best possible chance."

"Our child," I repeated quietly. "Not just Sophie's cord blood donor?"

His expression softened, and he reached out to touch my cheek in a gesture that felt almost genuine. "Both. Always both."

Against my better judgment, I found myself responding to his attentions. There was something seductive about being cared for so thoroughly, even if I recognized the manipulation behind it. When Daniel insisted on accompanying me to every prenatal appointment, I allowed it. When he began drawing baths infused with lavender oil to help me sleep, I accepted the gesture gratefully.

It was during the eighth week of my pregnancy that my suspicions resurfaced.

I had been experiencing unusual symptoms—excessive thirst, heightened sensitivity in my breasts beyond normal pregnancy changes, and occasional heart palpitations. As a doctor, I recognized the signs of hormonal imbalance, but my blood work at the OB's office consistently came back normal.

One morning, I woke earlier than usual and went down to the kitchen for water. As I passed Daniel's home office, I noticed the light was on, though the door was closed. Voices drifted out—Daniel's and a woman's. Victoria.

"The latest measurements are promising," Victoria was saying. "HCG levels are well above average."

"And the follicle-stimulating hormone?" Daniel's voice.

"Responding to the supplementation. We should see multiple mature follicles developing."

I froze, my hand gripping the doorframe. Follicle-stimulating hormone? That wasn't a standard pregnancy monitoring parameter—it was used in fertility treatments to stimulate multiple egg production.

"Is she showing any side effects?" Victoria asked.

"Nothing significant," Daniel replied. "Increased thirst, some sensitivity. She suspects nothing."

My blood ran cold. Without thinking, I pushed open the door. Both of them turned, Daniel rising from his desk, Victoria looking momentarily startled before her face settled into a practiced smile.

"Bella," she said warmly. "We were just discussing your case."

"My case?" I echoed, looking between them. "Or your experiment?"

Daniel stepped forward. "You should be resting."

"What are you giving me?" I demanded, ignoring him. "What's in those 'prenatal vitamins'?"

Victoria glanced at Daniel, who gave an almost imperceptible nod.

"A modified fertility protocol," she admitted. "Similar to what we use for IVF patients, but optimized for in utero development."

"You've been giving me fertility drugs?" My voice rose. "While I'm already pregnant?"

"It's perfectly safe," Victoria said soothingly. "We're just maximizing the potential of—"

"Of what? Multiple births?" The realization hit me like a physical blow. "You're trying to create twins."

Daniel didn't deny it. "Two cord blood donations would double Sophie's chances."

"And double the risk to me and the babies!" I was shaking now, both from anger and from the confirmation that my body had indeed been manipulated without my knowledge. "Did your precious research show you that multiple pregnancies increase the risk of preterm labor? Of placental abruption? Of maternal death?"

"We've calculated the risks," Daniel said calmly. "They're acceptable given the potential benefit."

"Acceptable to whom?" I hissed. "You had no right—"

"I had every right," he cut in, his voice hardening. "Our contract specifies that all medical decisions regarding the pregnancy fall under my authority if they impact the viability of cord blood collection."

I stared at him in disbelief. "I never agreed to that clause."

"Page seventeen, paragraph four," he said coldly. "Your signature is quite clear."

Victoria stepped forward, her expression conciliatory. "Bella, we're all on the same team here. We all want what's best for Sophie."

"Get out," I whispered.

"Bella—"

"GET OUT!" I screamed at her, months of suppressed rage finally erupting. "Get out of my house!"

After Victoria had hastily departed, Daniel and I faced each other across the office, the truth of our relationship laid bare in the early morning light.

"I trusted you," I said quietly.

"A mistake we both made," he replied, his face an impenetrable mask once more.

That afternoon, I requested my complete medical records from Dr. Abernathy's office. When they arrived, I locked myself in my lab and began methodically comparing the blood test results with my symptoms.

The official reports showed normal hormone levels, consistent with a healthy singleton pregnancy. But the timestamps were off—samples processed before they were even collected. Someone had been falsifying my medical data.

I worked through the night, drawing my own blood and running a comprehensive panel using the lab equipment. By morning, I had my answer: elevated FSH and LH levels consistent with superovulation induction. The prenatal "vitamins" Daniel had been giving me contained a cocktail of fertility drugs designed to stimulate multiple egg release.

At my twelve-week ultrasound the following day, I insisted on going alone. Daniel, surprisingly, didn't fight me—perhaps recognizing that pushing me further might result in my complete withdrawal from our arrangement.

The technician moved the wand across my abdomen, and I held my breath.

"Well, Dr. Montgomery-Kingsley," she said with a smile, "I have some news for you."

I already knew what she was going to say. The hormone levels had been unmistakable.

"Twins," I whispered.

She nodded, turning the screen so I could see more clearly. "Fraternal twins, developing beautifully. Would you like to know the sexes?"

I nodded numbly.

"One boy, one girl," she said, pointing to each tiny form. "Perfect genetic diversity."

Perfect genetic diversity. Maximizing the chances of a HLA match with Sophie. I should have felt manipulated, violated. Instead, as I stared at the two tiny heartbeats flickering on the screen, I felt a fierce, unexpected surge of protectiveness.

These were my children. Not cord blood donors. Not medical resources. My children.

When I returned home, Daniel was waiting in the foyer, his face carefully composed but eyes betraying his anxiety.

"Well?" he asked.

I handed him the ultrasound image wordlessly.

He stared at it for a long moment, his finger tracing the outline of each tiny form. Then he looked up, and I saw something in his eyes I'd never seen before—not calculation or determination, but something that might have been genuine emotion.

"Twins," he said softly.

"Yes," I replied. "Your experiment was successful."

I expected him to look triumphant. Instead, he reached for my hand, his touch uncharacteristically gentle.

"Our children," he corrected.

I pulled my hand away. "Don't pretend this is about building a family, Daniel. I saw the calculation in your eyes when the technician said 'one boy, one girl.' Double the genetic diversity, double the chances for Sophie."

He didn't deny it. "Is it so wrong to want to save our daughter's life?"

Our daughter. The words hung between us, neither of us fully prepared to address their implications.

"The fertility drugs stop now," I said firmly. "No more supplements I haven't personally verified. No more secret consultations with Victoria."

"Agreed," he said, too quickly.

I narrowed my eyes. "And I want complete transparency about Sophie's treatment plans moving forward. If these children—" I placed a protective hand over my abdomen, "—are going to help her, I need to know exactly how."

Daniel studied me for a moment, then nodded. "Complete transparency. You have my word."

But as he turned away, I caught a glimpse of something on his phone screen—a text message from Victoria:

"Double the chances. Now we just need to make sure she carries to term."

In that moment, I realized that while I might be carrying twins, I was still very much alone in this game of genetic chess. And the stakes had just doubled.