I gripped my phone so tight my knuckles ached, pressing my lips together in silence.

"Cora, are you feeling okay? You look terrible."

The car pulled up to the hospital entrance. I grabbed Tim's sleeve.

"Can we go to a different hospital? I don't want to do the checkup here."

Tim shot me a suspicious look. "Cora, we've done all our prenatal appointments here since we registered. Why would you want to switch now?"

"You picked Dr. Finch yourself. It's too late to change doctors."

He took my hand, his palm warm against mine.

"Have you been too anxious lately? That's my fault—I've been working so hard, trying to earn a bigger year-end bonus, to give you and the baby a better life."

Before, I would have melted at his dedication.

But now, that post was a thorn buried deep in my heart.

"Cora, every other hospital is fully booked. Let's just do the checkup today, okay?"

The cold probe pressed inside me. I couldn't stop trembling.

Tim held my hand tightly, his thumb smoothing the furrow between my brows.

"The patient needs to rest lying down. Results will be ready in forty-eight hours."

Maybe the tension had exhausted me—I actually fell asleep.

When I woke, Tim was gone.

The elevator was packed. I braced one hand against my belly and took the stairs.

At the landing, I saw him.

Tim had his arms around a girl younger than me.

"What are you doing at the hospital? There are so many viruses going around."

He pulled out a mask, his face creased with concern, and fitted it over her face.

"I was worried about the baby. When do the results come out?"

She pressed her body against his chest.

"Don't worry. I've got everything arranged—the results will be fine. You'll get to be a mother, just like you wanted."

"Now you—it's freezing. Go home before you make me worry."

The girl stamped her foot, pouting. "No, no, I want to stay with you. She's asleep anyway."

"I'm hungry. Will you take me to eat?"

Tim looked at her with helpless affection, brushing the loose hair from her forehead.

"Whatever you want. Anything you want. What are you craving?"

The tenderness in his eyes—I had never seen it once in five years of marriage.

She whispered something in his ear. He scooped her up by the waist.

They headed downstairs together.

A sharp pain tore through my abdomen. I clutched my belly, slid down the wall, and crumpled to the floor.

I called Tim. Heavy breathing filled the receiver.

"Cora, you're awake? Something came up with a project at work. Rest at the hospital—I'll pick you up when you're done."

"Tim, my stomach hurts. Can you skip the office and stay with me? Please?"

"Don't be difficult, Cora. It's almost the new year. I can't let anything affect my bonus. Be good."

The girl's voice, low and urgent: "Hurry up, hurry up. My hands are cold. Hang up."

The line went dead.

The pain ebbed.

I pulled myself upright and walked to the nurses' station.

I booked another appointment with Dr. Finch.

"Cordelia, you want a termination?"

Dr. Jacqueline Finch stared at me, disbelief etched across her face.

"Do you understand what you're saying? You're seven months pregnant. Your uterine condition is poor—after a termination, you may never conceive again."

I met her worried gaze and nodded.

"I've made up my mind. I want the termination. Please schedule the surgery for tomorrow."

She opened her mouth to argue. I pulled up the post I'd seen that morning and handed her my phone.

Her jaw dropped. She stared at the screen, speechless.

"That's impossible. Absolutely impossible. This post has to be lies. Cordelia—this is a life."

Dr. Finch was my best friend's neighbor. I trusted her completely.

Before I'd begged Tim to do the DNA test with me, it never crossed my mind that something could go wrong at the hospital.

But the moment I saw that woman in the stairwell, her lips brushing against his ear, her body pressed close—

My trust shattered.

"Try to stay calm. Let's wait for the DNA results before making any decisions, okay?"

Once I'd collected myself, Dr. Finch worked to steady my nerves. She began compiling a list of everyone who could have accessed the samples—from egg retrieval to embryo transfer.

"Cordelia, I promise you—if this is our hospital's mistake, we will handle it with the utmost seriousness."

"I've already pushed for the DNA results. Rushed order. You'll have them by tonight at the latest. I'll call you the moment they're in."

Tim, meanwhile, kept playing the role of devoted husband.

The car he'd ordered for me was already waiting outside the hospital.

"Cora, I'll be pulling an all-nighter. I ordered you some food—make sure you eat."

He rushed through the words, eager to hang up.

"Tim, I really don't feel well. Can you come home and stay with me? Forget the year-end bonus. I just want you here."

His voice turned impatient. "Cora, don't be difficult. That bonus means better formula for our son."

When I heard no softening in his tone, I cleared my throat. "Tim, let me ask you something. Did you ever do that labor simulation experience—with someone else?"

A beat of silence.

"Cora, I know I should've gone with you. But honestly, I'd rather spend that time earning money to take care of you and the baby than waste it on something pointless."

A woman's voice called out in the background, urging him to hurry.

Tim's words came faster. "Cora, my colleague's calling. I have to go."

I set the phone face-down on the couch and wiped my tears.

A message from Rowan Pierce.

He'd found her.

Her name was Marina Dickerson. Tim's first love.

Her broken family hadn't met the Gilbert family's standards. The year they graduated, under pressure from his parents, Tim had been forced to end things with her.

But after he married me, they'd never really let go.

Marina loved documenting her life. She was a moderately popular vlogger on Lemon8.

On her page, I discovered a different Tim.

He smiled. He posed for photos. He cooked.

Nothing like the Tim I knew—the one who did nothing but work himself to the bone.

It turned out that during our honeymoon, they'd already reconnected.

For all ten days of our trip, she'd stayed in the room next to ours.

That was her very first Lemon8 post.

In the photo, Tim wore the wedding ring I'd picked out for him myself.

He was holding Marina on the beach, kissing her.

And in that moment, it finally made sense.

The tattoo on his left ring finger—the one he'd been so desperate to scrub away.

It was the initials of her name.

Like a glutton for punishment, I scrolled through all 349 of her posts.

Then I opened her latest update.

A budget motel near the hospital.

Tim's rumpled clothes and belt draped over a chair.

That belt. The one I'd given him for our anniversary.

Marina had commented beneath the photo: "Boyfriend's cooking game is strong. I'm stuffed."

I replied to her comment: "That belt belongs to my husband."

I attached the photo of Tim examining the belt that night.

The comment section exploded.

People flooded in, calling Marina a homewrecker.

My phone rang. Dr. Finch's voice came through, low and steady.

"Cordelia. Tomorrow morning, nine o'clock. I've booked you the first surgery slot."