Chapter 3 - SHARON'S DEMANDS
Sharon stood framed in the doorway, her cold gray eyes reflecting the harsh light of my phone. She wore an elegant beige wool coat, her hair pinned up in her usual neat, severe bun. She didn't look flustered or angry. She looked like a businesswoman inspecting a bad investment.
"Put the light down, Laurel," Sharon said evenly, stepping inside and shutting the heavy wooden door behind her. "You're going to give yourself a headache."
"He lied," I gasped, holding the original hospital report against my chest. "Gavin is their father! The babies are his! Why did he stand up in front of forty people and pretend they weren't? Why did you stand there and let him?"
Sharon walked over to the wooden workbench, set her flashlight down, and dusted off her leather gloves. "Because it was necessary."
"Necessary?!" I yelled, my voice cracking. "He destroyed my reputation! He abandoned his four-month-old children on the day of their baptism! He left us stranded without car seats!"
"Oh, please, lower your voice," Sharon replied with deep disdain. "You were always so dramatic, Laurel. 'Destroyed your reputation.' This isn't about your feelings or church social standing. This is about survival and protecting what belongs to this family."
"What are you talking about?"
Sharon leaned back against the workbench, her expression cold. "My late husband's estate wasn't just this house and land, Laurel. Before he passed, Arthur set up a multi-million dollar trust fund for Gavin's children—a trust that activates the moment Gavin has legitimate heirs who carry the Whitlock name."
"Then why deny them?!" I demanded. "If the trust is for his children, why push them away?!"
Sharon sneered. "Because Arthur’s will had a very specific clause written into it by his lawyers. If Gavin divorces you under normal circumstances, you, as the mother of his children, are entitled to forty percent of the estate assets, primary custody of the children, child support payments, and full residency in the family home until the children turn eighteen."
The realization hit me like a physical blow. The air rushed out of my lungs.
"Unless," Sharon continued, her voice dripping with venom, "the marriage is dissolved due to egregious fraud—specifically, if you bore children through adultery and passed them off as his. Under Arthur’s trust terms, a mother proven guilty of paternity fraud loses all claims to support, all rights to trust distribution, and can be evicted immediately without alimony."
"It's a setup," I whispered, tears of rage burning my eyes. "You fabricated fake DNA reports to strip me of everything and force me out with nothing."
"Gavin paid a dark-web laboratory twelve thousand dollars to generate those synthetic documents," Sharon said casually, as if talking about buying groceries. "They look real enough to ruin your credibility in this small town. By tomorrow morning, the pastor will have told the elders. The story will spread across the county. No lawyer in this town will take your case without a massive retainer—which you don't have, because Gavin froze your joint bank accounts twenty minutes ago."
My phone buzzed in my hand. A notification from my banking app popped up: Account Status: Frozen / Legal Hold Applied.
"You're monsters," I breathed. "Both of you."
"We are pragmatic," Sharon corrected sharpely. "You were a middle-class schoolteacher with no family backing, Laurel. You were never suitable for Gavin. Now, here is how this is going to go. Gavin will offer you a quiet settlement tomorrow. You sign a non-disclosure agreement, hand over sole legal custody of the triplets to Gavin and me, and walk away with fifty thousand dollars in cash. You get to leave town with your dignity intact."
"Hand over my children to you?" I shook my head, stepping backward toward the back exit door. "You think I would ever let you touch my babies after this? I have the real test right here!" I slammed my hand on the original St. Jude document.
Sharon chuckled—a low, terrifying sound. "Read the header on that document again, Laurel."
I snapped my eyes down to the paper in my hand.
Under the header St. Jude’s NICU Intake Lineage, the patient name read: INFANT A (LUKE) - DNA REF: #9902
It didn't have their legal names. It didn't have my social security number or Gavin's legal signature. It was an internal, preliminary hospital intake log—not a court-admissible certified paternity document.
"Without a court order, that paper is useless in a custody hearing," Sharon said, taking a step toward me. "And to get a court order, you need a judge. To get a judge, you need a lawyer. And to get a lawyer, you need money. You have three infant babies, no income, no bank account, and a ruined reputation. How long do you think you'll last?"
"I will fight you until my last breath," I spat.
"Then you will lose them completely," Sharon warned, her eyes narrowing into slits. "Give me that paper."
She lunged forward to grab the document from my hand. I dodged sideways, slamming my shoulder into a wooden sawhorse. The sawhorse collapsed with a loud crash, sending iron tools clattering across the floor. Sharon stumbled over a stack of timber.
I didn't wait for her to get up. I gripped the paper, bolted out the side door into the freezing night air, and ran down the gravel lane to my car.
I scrambled into the driver's seat, locked the doors, and slammed my foot on the gas pedal. As my headlights cut through the dark road, my phone buzzed again.
May you like
It was another text from the same unknown burner number that had tipped me off about the workshop:
She's lying about the trust clause. Check the public probate filings under Case #4409 at the County Courthouse. Gavin isn't trying to keep the money away from you. He's trying to hide what he already spent.
