I looked at the digital chart glowing on the tablet. Jessica Thorne. Reason for Visit: Pregnancy Confirmation.

I knew the name. I had seen it light up my husband’s phone screen at 2:00 AM, disguised as “J.T. – Accountant.” I had read the texts archived in the cloud he thought was secure. I had seen the promises he made her—promises bought with my money, built on the foundation of my life. Mark had been “working late” for six months. Now, I knew exactly what he had been working on.

The door clicked open. My nurse, Sarah, ushered her in.

Jessica was younger than I expected, radiant with a kind of tacky, aggressive vitality. She wore a designer dress that was a season out of date and carried a handbag that screamed “new money.” She didn’t look nervous. She looked triumphant. She was glowing, not with maternal warmth, but with the smug satisfaction of a thief who thinks she’s successfully pulled off the heist of the century.

“I asked specifically for the senior specialist,” Jessica announced, dropping her bag onto the chair. She snapped her gum, the sound cracking like a pistol shot in the quiet room. “My boyfriend is very wealthy. He wants to make sure his heir is perfect. Money is no object.”

I nodded silently, gesturing with a gloved hand for her to lie on the examination table. I didn’t trust my voice yet. If I spoke, I feared the scream building in my throat would shatter the sterile field.

“He’s terrified of hospitals,” she prattled on, climbing onto the paper-covered table. The crinkle of the paper sounded deafening. “But he insisted I come here. Said it’s the best. Isn’t that sweet?”

It was ironic. Mark had insisted she come here, likely because he knew I was attending a conference in Chicago. He didn’t know I had caught an early flight home to surprise him. He didn’t know the surprise was now waiting for him in Exam Room 3.