Instead, the doctor walked in holding a sealed envelope, her face drained of color.

She didn’t sit down.

She looked straight at me and said, in a low, steady voice,

“You need to call the police.”

My heart began hammering so violently I could feel it in my throat.
“The police?” I asked, panic flooding my voice. “Why? Did Ryan do something?”

Dr. Patel placed the envelope on her desk but didn’t open it. Her tone was careful, deliberate. “I want to choose my words very precisely,” she said. “This isn’t about relationship issues. This concerns a possible crime—and your baby’s safety.”

I stared at her, completely lost. “Is the test… incorrect?”

“The DNA results are back,” she said. “And they are not what anyone anticipated. The baby is not biologically related to Ryan.”

For a split second, relief tried to surface. If that were true, Ryan would look foolish, and this nightmare could finally end. But Dr. Patel’s expression remained grave.

“And,” she added evenly, “the baby is not biologically related to you either.”

The room seemed to tilt. I gripped the edge of the chair to keep from falling. “That can’t be right,” I whispered. “I gave birth to him.”