When someone said Peter Cooke showed up at OB-GYN with a girl, I laughed it off. 

Then I saw him—arm around a sobbing Cindy Bisch, his mentor’s daughter—and my stomach tanked. 

Phoebe Palmer, my old classmate from our PhD days abroad, came out with the prenatal report. She shot Peter a look as she handed it over. “Baby’s fine. But she needs to chill. She’s close to her due date, so watch her diet.” 

She kept it professional, but yeah, the tone had teeth. 

Peter, totally unaware Phoebe and I went way back, just nodded all cool and thanked her. 

I stood there, watching him walk off with his arm around Cindy. That’s when my phone buzzed. 

Hands shaking, I pulled it out. 

Phoebe. 

She shouldn’t have sent it, but she did—an ultrasound, then a message: 

[How long has Peter been hiding this from you?] 

I didn’t answer. Just opened the image. 

[Gestational age: 38 weeks.] 

So yeah. He’d been lying to me for a year. From the second he slept with Cindy to now—he never said a word. 

Phoebe turned, spotted me, and sighed. She walked over. 

Cindy was her last patient of the morning, and the hallway was dead quiet, almost lunch. 

“Yuna… you okay?” 

She grabbed my hand. That’s when I realized—I couldn’t even feel my fingers. 

I turned to Phoebe, stiff as a board, and gave a quick nod. Just as I went to pocket my phone, a new friend request popped up. 

[Ms. Zander, I think you know who I am. Want to talk?] 

Phoebe called my name a few times before I finally blinked out of it. 

“I’m fine. Gotta update some charts. I’ll head back.”