Chapter 3 - The Secret in the Sound
The private ultrasound room smelled of lavender and antiseptic. The lights were dimmed, casting long shadows across the monitors.
Miriam wiped warm gel across my lower abdomen, her expression professional, though her dark eyes betrayed deep concern. "Elena, you're trembling. What happened tonight? Dante’s PR team has been calling high-end hotels across the Loop asking for you."
"He doesn't know," I said flatly, keeping my eyes fixed on the blank ceiling. "And he can never know."
Miriam pressed the transducer down. The screen lit up with grainy gray and white patterns.
For two minutes, the only sound in the room was the hum of the machine. Miriam’s eyebrows furrowed. She adjusted the contrast, leaned closer to the monitor, and moved the probe slightly to the left.
"Miriam?" My voice hitched in my throat. "Is there something wrong? Is it ectopic?"
"No," Miriam breathed, her face illuminated by the blue light of the screen. "It’s not ectopic, Elena. Look."
She turned the monitor toward me.
In the center of the dark gestational sac, there wasn't just one tiny, flickering ember.
There were two.
"You're carrying twins," Miriam said, her voice filled with awe. "Spontaneous diamniotic twins. And look right here..."
She clicked a button, and suddenly, the room was filled with a sound that knocked the air straight out of my lungs.
*Thump-thump-thump-thump.*
*Thump-thump-thump-thump.*
Two distinct, galloping heartbeats. Rapid. Strong. Alive.
A violent sob tore through my chest. I clutched the edge of the examination table, my knuckles turning white. Two babies. Two tiny lives growing inside me while the man who helped create them was scrubbing another woman's lipstick off his face.
"Elena, listen to me," Miriam said, her tone suddenly turning deadly serious. She paused the ultrasound, wiped the gel from my stomach, and sat on the rolling stool beside me. "There's something else you need to know."
"What?"
"I pulled your historical reproductive charts from the central network while I was waiting for you," Miriam said, pulling up a tablet. "Three years ago, you were treated by Dr. Robert Chen at the Moretti Medical Pavilion, correct?"
"Yes. He was Dante’s family physician."
Miriam’s jaw tightened. "Chen’s notes stated you had severe ovarian failure and elevated FSH levels consistent with early menopause. But Elena... I ran your basic blood panel forty minutes ago when you walked through the door. Your hormone levels are textbook perfect. Your ovarian reserve is that of a healthy twenty-seven-year-old woman."
The room seemed to spin. "What are you saying?"
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"I’m saying those records from three years ago were fabricated," Miriam said bluntly. "Someone doctored your files. You were never infertile, Elena. Not even close."
***
