The digital hum of the ultrasound monitor sounded like a ticking time bomb in the sudden, suffocating silence of the examination room. Diego stood by the door, his chest puffed out with the arrogant authority of a man who believed he had finally caught his prey, while Paola kept a tight, venomous grip on his arm, her eyes filled with a smug, triumphant malice.
“Go ahead, Doctor,” Diego sneered, crossing his arms over his tailored jacket. “Tell her. Tell my unfaithful wife exactly how many months she is, so we can finally take these numbers to the family court in Polanco.”
Dr. Salinas didn’t flinch. She slowly laid the transducer down, took off her glasses, and looked at Diego with a look of profound, surgical detachment that made Paola’s triumphant smile instantly freeze.
“Mr. Diego,” Dr. Salinas said, her voice dropping into a flat, sub-zero register. “The gestational sac is exactly nine weeks along. The biological timeline matches your wife’s ovulation perfectly, falling precisely two weeks before your scheduled vasectomy. But that isn’t the reason I asked you to look at this screen.”
