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.”
Peyton, who had been preening by the door, suddenly went rigid. The silver pen slipped from her fingers, clattering loudly against the linoleum floor.
“But he had a vasectomy two months ago!” Peyton blurted out, her voice pitching upward in panic. “I booked the clinic for him myself!”
“Exactly,” Dr. Sutton replied, turning her sharp gaze to Peyton. “And this pregnancy began a full month before that procedure took place.”
Something massive and heavy broke loose inside me. It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t peace. It was the intoxicating, raw oxygen of vindication.
David leaned closer to the screen, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the edge of the machine. “No. The dates must be wrong. The machine is calibrated incorrectly.”
