The screen glowed, indifferent to lies and leather folders. “Approximately twelve weeks,” Dr. Sutton said, and the number detonated in the silence. A month before his vasectomy. A month before Peyton booked the clinic and rehearsed her victory speech about “upgrading” the family tree. The pen slipped from her perfect fingers, clattering against the tile like a gun misfired. David stammered about calibration and error margins, clinging to jargon the way drowning men clutch driftwood, while the doctor dismantled him with protocol, timestamps, and post-op semen analyses that didn’t lie. Then she paused, eyes narrowing, and shifted the wand. A second sac. A second heartbeat. Two lives thundering through the speakers while the man who’d called me a whore collapsed into a chair, whispering “no” like a prayer to a god that had finally answered me instead. I walked out with ultrasound photos and a lawyer on speed dial, just as news broke that Peyton had announced her own “miracle” pregnancy to his family. By the time I reached my driveway, I knew exactly where I’d expose every lie: at Eleanor Vance’s glittering, poisonous celebrati… Continues…