David stared at the date beneath the doctor’s finger.
The room seemed to shrink around him.
Allison’s hand remained frozen on the paper sheet covering the examination table.
The monitor still showed the soft gray movement David had walked in expecting to claim as proof that every cruel choice he had made was leading somewhere better.
The doctor checked the measurement once more before speaking.
“At this size, conception most likely occurred around sixteen weeks ago, give or take several days.”
David did not answer.
He did not need a calendar.
He had spent the last three months constructing his new life around dates.
Allison had told him their affair became physical after his Miami conference, twelve weeks earlier.
She had cried when she admitted she was pregnant.
She had told him she had never been with anyone else during that period.
She had said the timing proved the baby was his.
David had wanted to believe her so badly that he had treated wanting as evidence.
Now the doctor was telling him the pregnancy began roughly a month before Allison’s version of their relationship.
“That’s impossible,” Allison said.
Her voice was thin.
The doctor remained calm.
“Pregnancy dating isn’t exact to a single day, but at this stage the difference between twelve weeks and eighteen weeks is significant.
The measurements are consistent across what we’re seeing.”
David finally looked at Allison.
“Sixteen weeks ago?”
“David—”
“You told me Miami.”
“I know what I told you.”
That answer struck him harder than a denial would have.
He stepped away from the bed.
“Who was it?”
The doctor lowered the probe.
“I think you should have this conversation privately.”
Allison sat up too quickly.
“There is nothing to talk about.
Dates can be wrong.
Women get dates wrong all the time.”
“Not by six weeks at this point without another explanation,” the doctor said carefully.
“We can review the scan and medical history again, but I don’t want either of you making assumptions about paternity based solely on an estimated due date.”
Paternity.
The word entered the room like someone had opened a door.
David’s mother and sister were outside planning a grandson’s future.
Catherine was somewhere between Manhattan and the airport with Aiden and Chloe.
The divorce decree bearing David’s hurried signature was barely dry.
And suddenly the child for whom he had publicly dismantled his family might not be his.
“Tell me,” David said.
Allison looked toward the doctor as though hoping professional ethics might rescue her from a personal question.
“David, not here.”
“You let me bring my family here.”
“You brought them.”
“Because you told me this baby was mine.”
Allison’s mouth tightened.
For the first time since David met her, the softness vanished from her face.
“You wanted it to be yours.”
He stared at her.
That sentence loosened something ugly inside him.
“Who else?”
Allison lowered her eyes.
David laughed once, without humor.
