PART 3
“Tell her why she begged us to perform the procedure.”
Diego’s words seemed to drain every sound from the room.
I looked down at the photographs scattered across the table.
In one, I lay unconscious beneath a thin surgical sheet. My face was turned toward the camera, my lips slightly parted, my skin unnaturally pale.
In another, Diego stood beside the operating table.
And in the last photograph, Dr. Álvaro Serrano held a surgical instrument near my body.
There was no mistaking him.
The slightly graying hair.
The narrow face.
The same serious eyes that had looked at me with concern less than an hour earlier.
“You were there,” I whispered.
Álvaro did not deny it.
His shoulders dropped as though he had been carrying the weight of that photograph for six years.
“Yes,” he said.
The answer broke something inside me.
I backed away from both men.
“Don’t come near me.”
“Lucía, please listen,” Álvaro said. “The photograph does not show what you think it shows.”
“It shows you standing over me while someone sterilized me.”
“I didn’t perform the sterilization.”
“But you were in the room.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He looked toward Diego.
Diego’s mouth curved into a small, satisfied smile.
He had wanted this moment.
He had come prepared for it.
Álvaro took a slow breath.
“Six years ago, Diego called me shortly after midnight. We had not spoken for months. He said there had been a complication during a minor procedure at his clinic.”
“What complication?”
“He said you were hemorrhaging.”
I stared at Diego.
He did not move.
Álvaro continued.
“When I arrived, you were already unconscious. Your blood pressure was dangerously low. There was blood on the sheets, and Diego claimed he had discovered an unexpected lesion while performing a hysteroscopy.”
“He’s lying,” Diego said calmly.
Álvaro ignored him.
“I helped stabilize you. That is what I was doing when those photographs were taken.”
“Then why didn’t you take me to a hospital?”
“I tried.”
His voice cracked slightly.
“I told Diego to call an ambulance. He refused. He said transporting you would expose private medical information and destroy both your reputations.”
“My reputation?”
“He told me you had requested a procedure that you did not want documented.”
I felt my stomach tighten.
“What procedure?”
Álvaro glanced at the report in my hand.
“Sterilization.”
“No.”
“That is what he claimed.”
Diego stepped forward.
“That is what happened.”
I turned toward him.
For eleven years, I had known every expression on my husband’s face.
The smile he used with nervous patients.
The concerned look he wore when he wanted someone to trust him.
The tender expression he gave me whenever I cried.
Now, for the first time, I saw how carefully those expressions had been constructed.
“You expect me to believe I asked you to make sure I could never become pregnant?”
“You were terrified,” Diego said. “You were not thinking clearly.”
“Then I could not legally consent.”
“You consented before you were sedated.”
“Where is the original form?”
“You’re holding a copy.”
“With a forged signature.”
“It isn’t forged.”
“It isn’t mine!”
My shout echoed through the consultation room.
Diego’s eyes hardened.
“You don’t remember that night, Lucía. That does not mean it didn’t happen.”
“Then make me remember.”
He reached toward the yellow envelope again.
From inside, he removed a small black memory card.
“I kept this because I knew there might come a day when you accused me of exactly this.”
Álvaro moved suddenly.
“Don’t play it.”
Diego looked at him.
“Why? Are you afraid she’ll hear the truth?”
“I’m afraid you’ll manipulate her again.”
Dr. Morales stepped between them.
“No one is playing anything until hospital security arrives.”
She reached toward the telephone.
Diego placed his hand over it.
The movement was not violent, but it was enough to make everyone freeze.
“Remove your hand,” she said.
He held her gaze for several seconds.
Then he slowly pulled away.
“Call whoever you want,” he replied. “The recording will prove my wife asked for the procedure.”
My wife.
The words sounded possessive now.
Not loving.
I picked up the memory card.
“What’s on it?”
“A video of your consent.”
“Before or after you drugged me?”
“Before.”
“Then play it.”
“Lucía,” Álvaro warned.
“I need to see it.”
Dr. Morales inserted the card into the computer.
The screen went black.
Then an image appeared.
I saw myself sitting in a small office at Clínica Santa Isabel.
I was wearing the blue dress I remembered from that summer. My hair was tied back, and my face looked swollen from crying.
Diego sat beside me.
A camera had been positioned on the desk.
My recorded voice filled the room.
“I understand that the procedure is permanent.”
My knees weakened.
It was my voice.
There was no doubt.
On the video, Diego asked, “And this is what you want?”
The woman who looked like me nodded.
“Yes.”
“Has anyone forced you to make this decision?”
“No.”
“Do you understand that you may never become pregnant naturally afterward?”
“Yes.”
My recorded face crumpled.
“I can’t let another child suffer because of me.”
The video ended.
No one spoke.
I stared at the frozen image of myself.
I had said the words.
I had looked directly at the camera.
I had confirmed everything.
But I remembered none of it.
Not the office.
Not the blue dress.
Not the tears.
Not the fear in my own eyes.
“What child?” I whispered.
Diego’s expression softened.
It was the same expression he had used during every failed pregnancy test.
The performance returned effortlessly.
“You were pregnant.”
My heart stopped.
“No.”
“You found out a week before the procedure.”
“That’s impossible.”
“You were only a few weeks along.”
I shook my head violently.
“I have never been pregnant.”
“You were.”
“Then what happened?”
Diego looked down.
“You lost the baby.”
The floor seemed to tilt beneath me.
I grabbed the edge of the table.
“No.”
“You began bleeding at home. I brought you to the clinic because you refused to go to a public hospital.”
“That is not true.”
“You were devastated.”
“I would remember losing a child.”
“You suffered a psychological crisis afterward.”
“Stop lying.”
“You blamed yourself. You said there was something wrong with your blood, something hereditary.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You received genetic test results.”
“I never had genetic testing.”
“Yes, you did.”
He reached into the envelope and removed another page.
It bore the logo of a laboratory in Barcelona.
My name appeared at the top.
Beneath it was a list of genetic markers and a conclusion printed in bold letters:
High probability of transmitting a severe congenital disorder.
I read the sentence again and again.
My vision blurred.
“You told me you could never risk another pregnancy,” Diego said quietly. “You begged me to make sure it never happened again.”
Álvaro took the report from my hands.
He studied it for several seconds.
Then he turned it over.
“This laboratory closed nine years ago.”
Diego’s face did not change.
“The test was performed before it closed.”
Álvaro pointed toward the bottom of the page.
“This certification code did not exist six years ago.”
Silence.
Dr. Morales stepped closer.
“You’re sure?”
“I worked with this laboratory during residency. They used eight-digit specimen codes. This report has twelve.”
Diego gave a quiet laugh.
“You remember laboratory codes from a decade ago?”
“I remember the investigation.”
The word changed the atmosphere instantly.
“What investigation?” I asked.
Álvaro looked at me.
“The complaint that ended my career at Santa Isabel involved falsified genetic results.”
Diego’s jaw tightened.
Álvaro continued.
“Several women were told they carried dangerous hereditary conditions. Some agreed to terminate pregnancies. Others underwent sterilization.”
The blood drained from my face.
“Why would anyone do that?”
“We never discovered the full reason.”
“You mean you never proved it,” Diego corrected.
Álvaro stepped toward him.
“I proved enough.”
“You proved nothing.”
“I found eleven altered reports.”
“And the hospital found that you accessed confidential files without authorization.”
“Because you were deleting them.”
Diego’s controlled expression cracked for the first time.
Only slightly.
But I saw it.
Álvaro saw it too.
“You were terrified I would discover what you were doing,” Álvaro said. “So you accused me of stealing patient information.”
“You did steal it.”
“To protect those women.”
“You protected no one. You were suspended, your fiancée left you, and your father spent his retirement savings defending you.”
Álvaro’s face went rigid.
Diego smiled coldly.
“Should we tell Lucía the rest?”
“Be quiet.”
“Should we tell her why you truly came to the clinic that night?”
“I came because you said she was dying.”
“You came because you were obsessed with her.”
The room went still.
I looked at Álvaro.
“What does he mean?”
“Nothing.”
“He knew you before I did,” Diego said.
Álvaro turned on him.
“Stop.”
“When we were medical students, Álvaro saw you at a university event. He talked about you for months.”
I searched Álvaro’s face.
He looked away.
“You knew me?”
“Barely.”
“You never told me.”
“We spoke once.”
Diego laughed.
“You followed her into a café and pretended the only available chair happened to be at her table.”
“That has nothing to do with this.”
“It has everything to do with this. When I called and told you Lucía was in danger, you came without asking questions.”
“I came because she needed a doctor.”
“You came because you had never forgotten her.”
I felt trapped between two versions of the past, both controlled by men who had hidden the truth from me.
Dr. Morales picked up the telephone again.
“This conversation is over. Security is on the way.”
Diego’s eyes remained fixed on me.
“Lucía, come home with me.”
“Home?”
“We can discuss everything calmly.”
“You sterilized me.”
“You requested it.”
“You forged a genetic report.”
“That is Álvaro’s accusation.”
“You let me undergo fertility treatments for five years.”
Pain flashed across his face, but I no longer knew whether it was real.
“I wanted to give you hope.”
“You knew there was no hope.”
“I was trying to protect you.”
“From what?”
He hesitated.
It lasted less than a second.
But it was enough.
“From what, Diego?”
He did not answer.
Álvaro suddenly turned toward the printed procedural summary.
“There should be more pages.”
The nurse who had delivered the records was still standing near the doorway.
“They only sent three.”
“A bilateral tubal occlusion requires an operative record, medication log and pathology report.”
“I requested everything.”
“Call the archive again.”
The nurse left quickly.
Diego moved toward the door.
Dr. Morales blocked his path.
“You’re not leaving.”
“You have no authority to detain me.”
“Perhaps not,” Álvaro said. “But the police will.”
Diego looked at him with open hatred.
“You still think you’re the hero.”
“No. I think I was a coward.”
The confession caught everyone’s attention.
Álvaro faced me.
“I should have reported what I saw that night.”
“You said you filed a complaint.”
“I reported the forged records. I didn’t report what happened to you.”
“Why?”
His voice dropped.
“Because Diego showed me the video.”
The video of me asking to be sterilized.
“I believed there was a chance you had truly consented,” he continued. “You appeared frightened and confused, but I could not prove you had been drugged before the recording.”
“You could have spoken to me.”
“Diego said contacting you would worsen your condition. He said you had attempted to harm yourself after the miscarriage.”
I turned toward my husband.
“You told him I tried to kill myself?”
“I told him what happened.”
“It never happened.”
“You don’t remember.”
“Stop saying that!”
My scream tore through my throat.
At that moment, the nurse returned.
She was no longer alone.
An elderly woman in a gray cardigan followed her into the room.
The woman’s face was pale, and she clutched a thick folder against her chest.
“I’m Elena Ruiz,” she said. “I managed the surgical archive at Clínica Santa Isabel for twenty-two years.”
Diego became completely still.
The woman noticed him.
Fear passed through her eyes.
“You,” she whispered.
“Elena,” Diego said. “You should not be here.”
“That is what you told me six years ago.”
She placed the folder on the table.
“These are the missing pages from Lucía Martín’s file.”
“How did you get them?” Dr. Morales asked.
“I made copies before the originals disappeared.”
Diego moved toward the folder.
Álvaro stepped in front of him.
“Don’t.”
Elena opened the file.
The first page listed medications administered on the night of my procedure.
Álvaro read them silently.
His expression changed.
“What is it?” I asked.
He pointed toward one line.
“She was given midazolam before the consent video was recorded.”
Dr. Morales leaned closer.
“That medication can impair memory and judgment.”
“So I was drugged,” I said.
Neither doctor answered immediately.
Elena turned to another page.
“This is the anesthesia timeline. The first injection was given at 8:42 p.m.”
She placed the consent form beside it.
“The video was recorded at 9:17.”
Thirty-five minutes after I had been sedated.
My legs nearly gave out.
Diego’s voice remained calm.
“She was anxious. The medication helped her relax. She still understood what she was saying.”
“You recorded a sedated woman agreeing to permanent sterilization,” Dr. Morales said. “That is not consent.”
Elena shook her head.
“That was not the only procedure performed that night.”
Diego’s calm disappeared.
“Elena.”
She flinched but continued.
“There was a second operative code.”
She removed another sheet and handed it to Álvaro.
He read the page.
Then he looked at me with an expression I could not understand.
“What?” I demanded.
He did not speak.
I snatched the paper from him.
The words meant nothing to me.
Numbers.
Medical abbreviations.
A procedure code.
“What does it say?”
Álvaro swallowed.
“Oocyte aspiration.”
I stared at him.
“I don’t understand.”
“Egg retrieval.”
The room went silent.
My eyes moved slowly toward Diego.
“You removed my eggs?”
He said nothing.
“How many?”
Elena opened the embryology report.
“Eighteen.”
My chest tightened.
“What happened to them?”
The elderly woman looked at Diego before answering.
“Twelve were successfully fertilized.”
I could no longer feel my hands.
“Fertilized with whose sperm?”
Elena’s eyes filled with tears.
“The record does not say.”
“Where are the embryos?”
“Four were marked for storage.”
“And the others?”
“Eight were transferred to patients at the clinic.”
The words did not make sense.
“Transferred?”
“Into other women.”
A strange sound escaped my throat.
It might have been a laugh.
It might have been a sob.
“You used my eggs in other patients?”
Diego finally spoke.
“You agreed to donate them.”
“While I was drugged?”
“You wanted something good to come from your loss.”
“My loss?”
“The miscarriage.”
“The miscarriage you invented?”
“It was real.”
“Where is the pathology report?”
No one answered.
I looked at Elena.
“Was I pregnant?”
She lowered her eyes.
“I never saw evidence of a pregnancy.”
The final illusion shattered.
There had been no baby.
No genetic disorder.
No psychological crisis.
Diego had created an entire tragedy and placed it inside the empty space in my memory.
He had drugged me.
Taken my eggs.
Sterilized me.
Then spent five years pretending to help me become pregnant.
“Why?” I whispered.
He looked at me with an expression I had never seen before.
Not guilt.
Not shame.
Grief.
“I had debts,” he said.
“You sold my eggs?”
“It was more complicated than that.”
“You sold pieces of my body.”
“I was trying to save the clinic.”
“You destroyed my life to save a building?”
“I built everything for us.”
“There is no us.”
His face hardened.
“You don’t understand what that clinic was worth.”
“I understand exactly what I was worth to you.”
Sirens sounded faintly outside the hospital.
Diego looked toward the window.
Then at the folder.
Then at me.
“The police will not help you,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Because the records will disappear again.”
“Not this time,” Elena said. “I made multiple copies.”
Diego’s gaze snapped toward her.
“Where?”
She pressed her lips together.
He stepped toward her, but Álvaro blocked him again.
The door opened.
Two hospital security officers entered.
Behind them stood a uniformed policewoman.
Dr. Morales began explaining the situation.
For a moment, everyone spoke at once.
Diego protested.
Elena clutched her folder.
Álvaro pointed toward the medical evidence.
I stood in the center of the chaos, unable to move.
Then someone appeared in the hallway.
A woman around my age stood just beyond the open door. She had dark curls, a trembling mouth and one hand resting protectively on the shoulder of a little girl.
The child looked about five years old.
The woman stared at me.
“Are you Lucía Martín?”
I nodded slowly.
She stepped into the room.
“My name is Sara Velasco,” she said. “I received an anonymous message this morning telling me to come here.”
“What message?”
She held out her phone.
On the screen was a photograph of my archived medical file.
Below it was a single sentence:
The woman whose eggs created your daughter is about to discover the truth.
My heart pounded painfully.
Sara looked down at the little girl beside her.
“This is my daughter, Alba. She was conceived at Clínica Santa Isabel.”
The child lifted her face.
She had a small birthmark near her left eyebrow.
The same place where I had one.
Her eyes were green.
Exactly like mine.
Sara reached into her handbag and removed a folded laboratory report.
“I did a private DNA test after receiving the message,” she said. “The results arrived an hour ago.”
She handed the report to me.
My name was not printed anywhere.
But beside the words maternal biological relationship, the probability read:
99.98%.
I looked at the little girl again.
Her fingers were wrapped around a red toy rabbit.
She stared at me with frightened, familiar eyes.
Then she asked the question that made every person in the room fall silent.
“Mommy… is that lady my other mother?”
Before Sara could answer, Diego laughed.
It was a quiet, broken sound.
“You think Alba is the secret?” he said.
I turned toward him.
His eyes settled on me.
“There were eight embryos, Lucía.”
My blood turned cold.
He smiled.
“And Alba was only the first child we found.”…………………….
TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 4…
