Chapter 5 The Price of a Womb

Chapter 5: The Price of a Womb

Theodore Cantrell's funeral was a spectacle of wealth and power, attended by politicians, celebrities, and business titans who had benefited from his decades of ruthless dealmaking. I watched from a distance as they lowered his casket into the family mausoleum—a marble monstrosity that dominated the private cemetery on the Cantrell estate.

Ernest stood stoically beside Miranda, one hand on Thomas's shoulder. The boy was dressed in a miniature black suit, his face solemn but dry-eyed. Around them, a respectful distance away, stood James, Michael, and Daniel—their presence raising eyebrows among the elite gathered to pay their respects.

The rumors had already begun to circulate: Theodore Cantrell's illegitimate sons, appearing like ghosts at his funeral. The media would have a field day once the will was read.

"Ms. Morton," my assistant whispered, approaching from behind. "Everything is in place for the reading of the will tomorrow."

I nodded, my eyes still fixed on Thomas. "And the other matter?"

"The medical records have been obtained. They confirm everything."

A cold satisfaction settled in my chest. The final piece was in place.

---

The reading of Theodore Cantrell's will took place in the grand library of the family mansion—a room designed to intimidate, with its soaring ceilings, rare first editions, and oil portraits of Cantrell patriarchs glowering down from the walls.

I arrived exactly on time, dressed in a sleek black suit that was more armor than mourning attire. Ernest, Miranda, and the three brothers were already seated in a semicircle before the massive oak desk where Theodore's attorney, Harrison Wells, was arranging his papers with funeral precision.

"Ms. Morton," Wells acknowledged with a curt nod. "Please be seated."

I took the empty chair beside James, aware of Ernest's glare from across the room. Miranda sat rigidly beside him, her face a mask of controlled disdain. Thomas was mercifully absent—spared this particular battle in the war for his inheritance.

"Now that we're all present," Wells began, "I will proceed with the reading of Theodore Cantrell's last will and testament, dated three months ago."

Ernest leaned forward. "Three months? That's impossible. Father's will was updated last year."

Wells adjusted his glasses. "I have here the most recent version, properly signed and witnessed. If you wish to contest it—"

"Continue," I interrupted. "We're all eager to hear Theodore's final wishes."

The attorney cleared his throat and began to read. The usual preamble of legal jargon gave way to specific bequests—charitable donations, personal items to long-time employees, art collections to museums. Then came the part we were all waiting for.

"Regarding Cantrell Industries and all associated holdings," Wells read, his voice steady, "I hereby bequeath controlling interest to be divided as follows: Twenty percent to my son Ernest Cantrell—"

Ernest's face darkened.

"—ten percent each to James Whitman, Michael Donovan, and Daniel Foster, whom I acknowledge as my biological sons—"

Miranda gasped, her hand flying to her throat.

"—and the remaining fifty percent to the biological mother of my grandson Thomas, to be held in trust for him until his twenty-first birthday."

The room fell silent. Every eye turned to me.

"That's preposterous," Miranda finally sputtered. "She has no right—"

"The biological mother," I repeated softly. "Interesting choice of words."

Wells continued as if there had been no interruption. "Furthermore, I appoint Ava Morton as Thomas's legal guardian in the event of any challenge to Ernest and Miranda's custody."

Ernest shot to his feet. "This is a forgery. My father would never—"

"Your father knew exactly what he was doing," I said, rising to face him. "He knew that Thomas wasn't your son. He knew about Miranda's scheme. He knew everything."

Miranda stood as well, her composure cracking. "What scheme? What lies have you been telling?"

I smiled coldly. "No lies, Miranda. Just truths you thought were safely buried."

I turned to Wells. "Mr. Wells, I believe there's a video accompanying the will?"

The attorney nodded reluctantly and pressed a button on a remote control. A screen descended from the ceiling, and Theodore Cantrell's face appeared—recorded in this very library, judging by the background.

"If you're watching this," Theodore's recorded image began, "then I am dead, and the vultures have gathered to pick over my legacy."

His familiar scowl scanned the room as if he could see us all from beyond the grave.

"To my son Ernest—you were a disappointment in many ways, but your greatest failure was allowing your mother to control you. Yes, I knew about your condition. I knew about the deception. I allowed it because Cantrell blood, however obtained, must continue."

Ernest sank back into his chair, his face ashen.

"To James, Michael, and Daniel—I acknowledge you now, as I should have done years ago. Your mothers were promised settlements that were never paid. This is rectified in my will, along with your rightful shares of the company."

The three brothers exchanged glances, their expressions a mix of vindication and lingering bitterness.

"And to Ava Morton," Theodore continued, his voice softening slightly. "The most underestimated player in this game. You outmaneuvered us all."

I felt a chill run down my spine as Theodore's recorded eyes seemed to stare directly at me.

"I knew what Miranda did to you after Thomas's birth. The unnecessary hysterectomy, ordered while you were unconscious. A barbaric act worthy of the darkest ages of our family history."

Miranda made a strangled sound, half denial, half sob.

"What I didn't know," Theodore continued, "until my own diagnosis forced me to review all family medical records, was the true extent of the violation."

The room seemed to hold its breath.

"Your womb, Ava, was not discarded as medical waste. It was preserved, viable, and transplanted—into Miranda herself."

The silence that followed was absolute. Even the brothers, who had no personal stake in this revelation, looked stunned.

Ernest turned to his mother, horror dawning on his face. "Mother? What did you do?"

Miranda's perfectly maintained facade crumbled. "It was necessary," she whispered. "The family needed an heir. You couldn't provide one. And she—" she gestured dismissively at me, "—she was young, healthy. Her organs were compatible."

"So you stole my uterus," I said, my voice unnaturally calm. "You cut it out of me without consent and put it inside yourself."

"For the family!" Miranda cried, her composure completely shattered now. "Everything I've ever done has been for this family!"

I laughed then, a sound so cold it seemed to drop the temperature in the room. "No, Miranda. Everything you've done has been for yourself. Your position. Your power as the Cantrell matriarch."

I turned back to the screen where Theodore's image waited patiently. "Continue," I told the recording.

Theodore's face grew grim. "Miranda's plan was to use Ava's uterus to carry another heir—one created from my sperm and a donor egg. A true Cantrell, with no outside genetic claims. The procedure was scheduled for next month."

Ernest looked like he might be sick. "Father knew about this?"

"I discovered it only recently," Theodore's recording answered, as if hearing the question. "By then, my condition was terminal, and more importantly, Ava Morton had already set her own plan in motion."

Theodore's lips curved in what might almost have been a smile. "I recognize a worthy opponent when I see one. And so, my final decision: the company goes to the mother of my grandson. Biologically, legally, and morally, she has earned it through blood and sacrifice—willing or not."

The recording ended, and the screen went dark.

Wells cleared his throat in the heavy silence. "There are additional documents to sign, but the essential terms have been covered. Unless there are challenges—"

"There will be challenges," Ernest said hoarsely. "This is—it's—"

"The truth," I finished for him. "Supported by medical records, witness testimony, and DNA evidence."

I reached into my bag and withdrew a thick folder, placing it on the desk. "Your mother's medical records, including the transplant surgery. The surgeon's notes. The nurses' statements. Everything."

Miranda stood shakily. "You can't prove it was done without consent. I have the forms—"

"Forged," I cut her off. "As Mr. Wells can confirm, since his firm's handwriting experts have already examined them."

Wells nodded reluctantly. "The signatures do not match Ms. Morton's known handwriting from that period."

Ernest looked between his mother and me, his world visibly crumbling around him. "You took her uterus? To what—to bear another child at your age? You're seventy-one!"

"Modern medicine makes many things possible," Miranda said stiffly, regaining some of her composure. "With the right hormones, the right preparations—"

"The right stolen organ," I interjected. "My organ. The one you took from me while I was unconscious after giving birth to your grandson."

I stood and walked to where Ernest sat. "You asked me what I wanted, Ernest. Now you know. I wanted justice—not just for myself, but for every woman your family has used and discarded."

I turned to face them all. "The deal is simple: I take control of Cantrell Industries, as Theodore's will dictates. The brothers receive their shares. Ernest retains a minority stake. And Miranda—"

I faced the older woman directly. "Miranda relinquishes all claims to custody of Thomas and submits to a surgery to remove my uterus immediately."

"Never," Miranda hissed.

I shrugged. "Then I release everything to the press. Every detail. The illegal surgery. The transplant. The plans for another child using a seventy-one-year-old woman as a surrogate. Imagine the headlines."

Ernest rose unsteadily. "This can't be happening."

"It's been happening for three years," I replied calmly. "From the moment you and your mother decided I was nothing more than a vessel for your heir."

I walked to the window, looking out at the manicured gardens where Thomas was playing with his nanny, blissfully unaware of the war being waged in his name.

"You asked me once what price would satisfy me," I said to Ernest without turning around. "Now you know. My womb. My child. My company."

I faced the room again. "You have twenty-four hours to decide. Either Miranda surrenders my uterus and you all sign the transfer documents for Cantrell Industries, or I burn everything to the ground—reputation, legacy, fortune. Everything."

As I walked to the door, Ernest called after me, his voice broken: "Ava, please—what about Thomas? He's innocent in all this."

I paused, my hand on the doorknob. "Thomas will know the truth when he's old enough to understand it. Until then, he stays where he is, with the people he knows as family."

"And you?" Ernest asked. "Will you be in his life?"

I thought of the boy's eyes when he'd said I looked like the lady in the secret picture. The flicker of recognition that had passed between us.

"That," I said softly, "depends entirely on you."

As I left the Cantrell mansion, I felt a strange lightness. Three years of planning, of gathering evidence, of placing my pieces on the board—it was finally paying off. Theodore was dead. Miranda was exposed. Ernest was broken. And the company—the empire built on the backs of women like me—would soon be mine.

But as my driver pulled away from the estate, I caught a glimpse of Thomas in the rearview mirror. He stood at his bedroom window, watching my car with an expression that seemed far too knowing for a three-year-old.

For the first time in years, I felt a flicker of uncertainty. In all my careful planning, I had accounted for every variable except one: the child himself.

What if Thomas was more than just a pawn in this game? What if he had inherited more than just Cantrell DNA?

What if he had inherited their ruthlessness as well?