With another couple.
The room went silent the moment I entered.
“Doctor—” My voice cracked as I stepped forward. “There’s been a mistake.”
He blinked at me, startled—but composed.
“Signora—”
“There’s an error with this DNA test,” I said quickly, holding the folder up as evidence. “The child is Vincenzo’s. It has to be.”
The couple exchanged a glance.
The doctor, however, didn’t react with the same panic I felt.
He stayed calm.
Professional.
“The margin of error in our paternity testing is less than 0.0001%,” he said evenly.
Each word landed with precision.
“But if you’re that confident,” he added, “you’re welcome to return tomorrow for a repeat sample. We can expedite the results.”
I nodded.
Too quickly. Too jerky.
“Tomorrow,” I repeated under my breath.
Then I backed out of the room.
The corridor swallowed me again.
But this time—It felt different.
I barely remembered how I got to the garage exit.
The world felt distorted.
My fingers tightened around the crumpled report as I moved, the paper wrinkling further in my grip.
Hope.
There had been hope.
Now there wasn’t.
I stepped into the garage.
Cold air hit me first.
And then I saw him.
Vincenzo.
Leaning against the driver’s side of his matte-black SUV.
