Julian laid the paper flat on the desk, his palm smoothing out the crease.

I leaned forward, the glare of the overhead fluorescent lights reflecting off the white sheet.

“This is the secondary authorization log,” Julian said, pointing to a line near the bottom.

“It shows the physical transfer of the embryo from vault four to room B on October twelfth.”

Margaret did not look at the paper.

She kept her eyes fixed on Julian, her expression hardening into a mask of pure contempt.

“I do not care about your logs, young man,” Margaret said.

“A few lines of ink do not make a case, and they certainly will not save your family’s business.”

She leaned over the desk, her shadow falling across Julian’s hands.

“By the time my lawyers are finished, Westbridge will be known as a black-market organ mill,” she whispered.

“I will personally fund a media campaign that will ensure no woman ever steps foot in this clinic again.”

Julian’s face remained pale, but he did not pull his hands away from the desk.

“You can try, Mrs. Lawson,” Julian said softly.