Dr. Sutton stared at the screen. She stopped moving. She tapped a few keys on the console, her brow furrowing deeply.
“Mr. Vance,” Dr. Sutton said, her voice dropping into a register of pure, authoritative steel. “Before your wife signs a single piece of paper, you need to look at this monitor.”
David gave a short, patronizing sigh. The kind of sound a man makes when he is entirely convinced he is the smartest person in the room. He took a sip of his espresso and stepped closer to the machine.
“How far along is the bastard?” David asked, the cruelty rolling off his tongue with sickening ease.
Dr. Sutton turned the monitor toward him, her expression hardening into granite.
“Your wife is not six weeks pregnant,” Dr. Sutton stated flatly. “She is not seven. Based on the fetal measurements and her anatomical markers, she is approximately twelve weeks pregnant.”
The room plunged into an absolute, suffocating silence.
Twelve.
The number lodged itself in my chest, expanding until I felt I couldn’t draw breath.
David blinked. For the first time in weeks, his bulletproof certainty began to crack. The arrogant sneer faltered. “That’s… that’s not possible.”
“These are medical measurements, Mr. Vance,” Dr. Sutton pointed a gloved finger at the glowing screen. “They are not based on opinion, and they certainly don’t care about your legal paperwork.”
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