“Did you do a paternity test? Don’t lie and say no… A patient was scheduled for your shift who insisted she’s carrying your son—and you just forgot about it? You waved it off?” I say, but Chernov doesn’t take his cold eyes off me. “I didn’t—”
“Yes, I did,” Herman cuts me off with a direct shot to the heart. My soul shatters; my palm clutches the fabric of the lab coat at the bottom of my aching belly, where a tiny life is beginning. Will he learn about my pregnancy—depends on his answer.
“The probability of paternity is ninety-nine and nine percent,” each word hurts in my chest.
“But listen, Amina, everything isn’t—” I don’t hear anything else. White noise. My future husband has a child with someone else.
I tear off the chain from my neck, on which during work hours I wear my engagement ring instead of a pendant. In my rage, I toss it onto the table. And I don’t recognize my own voice when, in a frosty tone, I say: “The wedding is off! I will never marry you.”