Page 28 of His Secret Merger

I didn’t have anything clever to say to that. Because it was… a lot. All of it. The science, the legal stuff, the sobering realization that creating a family could come down to a few filters and a digital login.

Apparently, modern motherhood came with a menu. You just had to choose the vintage.

I didn’t open the catalog at the clinic. Dr. Klein had handed me the access code at the end of the appointment with a reassuring smile, the kind you give someone before you push them into traffic.

“No pressure,” she’d said. “Browse if you’re curious. You don’t have to make any decisions now. You don’t even have your testing done yet. This is just to give you an idea of your options if you need to go the IVF route.”

But of course, once I got home and kicked off my sandals, the curiosity festered.

The code was still scribbled on the back of a referral form in my bag. I tried to ignore it. Made tea. Watered the herbs. Checked my email.

And still, it sat there. Tucked between “New Client Inquiry–Coral Gables Estate” and a flash sale alert from a boutique I hadn’t shopped at since grad school.

I pulled it out. Logged in.

Welcome to LifeTree Genetics.

A few clicks later, the screen filled with neatly cropped childhood photos and bio blurbs in matching fonts that looked likethey’d been designed by someone who once sold furniture for Restoration Hardware.

Donor 19742: “I’m passionate about languages and literature. I want to help others start families with hope and intention.”

Donor 21105: “I believe kindness is inherited.”

Donor 19863:photo unavailable— but his “personal essay” was clearly written by ChatGPT and a sugar crash.

I scrolled.

And then I stopped.

Donor 19284.

The writing sample hit first—sharp, clever, bordering on smug.

“Legacy isn’t built by accident. I believe in clarity, curiosity, and continuity. My favorite hobby is yachting.”

My stomach flipped.

I skimmed the rest. University of Miami undergrad. Business background. Fluent in FrenchandGerman. Athletic. Tall.

I blinked at the childhood photo—light hair, a grin that was all mischief and charm, even at six years old. It was blurry, a little too perfect. But I’d seen that exact brand of smirk… in my pool. In my bed. In my kitchen, pouring wine like he was born to own the place.

Oh my God.

I backed out of the profile. Scrolled forward. Then back.

Donor 19284.

No name. No location. Just the kind of data that looked sterile on the page but hit like a sucker punch when you realized who it belonged to.

“For the love of God…”

I dropped the phone on the counter and stared at the ceiling, like the drywall had answers.

And then—because it was the only sane response—I started laughing.

Low at first. Then louder. Messy, hysterical, tears-pricking-the-corner-of-my-eyes kind of laughter. I said out loud to the room. “Of course, Damian Sinclair would try to repopulate the planet from a cryogenic lab.”

I swiped the screen back on, stared at the profile one more time, and let the absurdity settle.

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