Before I'd begged Tim to do the DNA test with me, it never crossed my mind that something could go wrong at the hospital.
But the moment I saw that woman in the stairwell, her lips brushing against his ear, her body pressed close—
My trust shattered.
"Try to stay calm. Let's wait for the DNA results before making any decisions, okay?"
Once I'd collected myself, Dr. Finch worked to steady my nerves. She began compiling a list of everyone who could have accessed the samples—from egg retrieval to embryo transfer.
"Cordelia, I promise you—if this is our hospital's mistake, we will handle it with the utmost seriousness."
"I've already pushed for the DNA results. Rushed order. You'll have them by tonight at the latest. I'll call you the moment they're in."
Tim, meanwhile, kept playing the role of devoted husband.
The car he'd ordered for me was already waiting outside the hospital.
"Cora, I'll be pulling an all-nighter. I ordered you some food—make sure you eat."
He rushed through the words, eager to hang up.
"Tim, I really don't feel well. Can you come home and stay with me? Forget the year-end bonus. I just want you here."
His voice turned impatient. "Cora, don't be difficult. That bonus means better formula for our son."
When I heard no softening in his tone, I cleared my throat. "Tim, let me ask you something. Did you ever do that labor simulation experience—with someone else?"
A beat of silence.
"Cora, I know I should've gone with you. But honestly, I'd rather spend that time earning money to take care of you and the baby than waste it on something pointless."
A woman's voice called out in the background, urging him to hurry.
Tim's words came faster. "Cora, my colleague's calling. I have to go."
I set the phone face-down on the couch and wiped my tears.
A message from Rowan Pierce.
He'd found her.
Her name was Marina Dickerson. Tim's first love.
Her broken family hadn't met the Gilbert family's standards. The year they graduated, under pressure from his parents, Tim had been forced to end things with her.
But after he married me, they'd never really let go.
Marina loved documenting her life. She was a moderately popular vlogger on Lemon8.
On her page, I discovered a different Tim.
He smiled. He posed for photos. He cooked.
Nothing like the Tim I knew—the one who did nothing but work himself to the bone.
It turned out that during our honeymoon, they'd already reconnected.
For all ten days of our trip, she'd stayed in the room next to ours.
That was her very first Lemon8 post.
In the photo, Tim wore the wedding ring I'd picked out for him myself.
He was holding Marina on the beach, kissing her.
And in that moment, it finally made sense.
The tattoo on his left ring finger—the one he'd been so desperate to scrub away.
It was the initials of her name.
Like a glutton for punishment, I scrolled through all 349 of her posts.
Then I opened her latest update.
A budget motel near the hospital.
Tim's rumpled clothes and belt draped over a chair.
That belt. The one I'd given him for our anniversary.
Marina had commented beneath the photo: "Boyfriend's cooking game is strong. I'm stuffed."
I replied to her comment: "That belt belongs to my husband."
I attached the photo of Tim examining the belt that night.
The comment section exploded.
People flooded in, calling Marina a homewrecker.
My phone rang. Dr. Finch's voice came through, low and steady.
"Cordelia. Tomorrow morning, nine o'clock. I've booked you the first surgery slot."
