Ten Weeks
Dante
Valeria’s pain cuts straight through me.
I saw her try to smile. A fragile, brave little smile that never reached her eyes—and I had to look away before my face betrayed just how much this situation is costing me too. Not in the same way. Not for the same reasons. But still.
I wanted to take her hand. Tell her I know, that I see, that her dignity in all of this both commands my admiration and breaks me at the same time.
But this is neither the place nor the moment.
I follow Bianca into the consultation room.
The doctor is a woman in her forties, with a bright smile and gentle movements—the kind of practitioner who instantly puts you at ease. She welcomes us, invites us to sit. We exchange a few words—the usual questions to establish context.
Then Bianca lies down on the examination table, her stomach bare under the cold light of the room.
The doctor applies the ultrasound gel and positions the probe. The screen flickers to life—grainy, black and white—and a sound fills the room.
A heartbeat.
Fast, steady, insistent.
I didn’t expect it to affect me. Or rather, I had prepared myself to stay detached, to move through this appointment like a formality. But hearing that heartbeat at that pace, seeing that blurred shape on the screen—the outline of a head, the beginnings of limbs—moves me despite myself.
A baby. My baby?
The doctor begins to comment on what we’re seeing, pointing at the screen with her stylus, her tone calm and practiced, like someone who’s done this hundreds of times.
Bianca smiles at me—a smile that almost looks genuine.
“There we go,” the doctor says, stabilizing the image. “Everything looks good. Measurements place the pregnancy at around twelve weeks.”
I go still.
“And conception?”
“Approximately ten weeks ago, give or take a few days.”
“Is the dating that precise?”
“Yes,” she confirms calmly, unaware of the weight of what she’s just said.
Her words land with brutal clarity.
Ten weeks.
The Chicago acquisition trip. Ten days. End-October.
The numbers line up in my head with mechanical, unforgiving clarity.
Bianca gets dressed again, relaxed, still riding the quiet euphoria of what she’s just seen on the screen. She reaches for my hand.
I pull away.
She doesn’t understand yet. The doctor doesn’t notice, absorbed in entering data into her computer, eyes fixed on the screen.
“Actually,” I say to the doctor, keeping my voice perfectly neutral.
She looks up.
“Please remove my information from the file.”
The doctor looks from one to the other, suddenly alert. Bianca freezes.
“I’m not the father of this child.”
“What?” Bianca breathes.
I turn to her.
“Ten weeks ago, I was in the United States on business. Ten days away, Bianca. We didn’t sleep together before I left, and we didn’t after I came back. The dates don’t work. I’m not the father.”
She opens her mouth. Closes it.
In her eyes, I see surprise flicker—brief—then something else takes over.
Not panic.
Calculation. Fast. Brutal. As if she’s rewriting the script in real time.
“You’re wrong,” she says.
Her voice is low, steady. Too steady for someone blindsided like this.
“The dates are right. We slept together just before you left.”
She holds my gaze, already anchoring herself to the version she’s building.
“It was the night before you left. You were half asleep, that’s true… but you don’t forget something like that. You even told me you loved me before you fell asleep.”
This time, her voice trembles. Her eyes fill with tears.
“I remember… because it was the first time you said it.”
I can almost see her rewriting the story in real time.
A blend of truth and lies, perfectly measured to create doubt.
But she made a mistake.
“You’re lying.”
My voice is calm. Sharp.
“Even half asleep, I would never have said that. Because, Bianca… I never loved you. Not the way a man loves the woman of his life. I cared about you. I even felt tenderness for you. But it wasn’t love.”
Her expression finally falters.
“How can you be so cruel?” she whispers. “I love you. I gave you everything… and this is how you throw me away?”
“No.”
I don’t raise my voice.
“You don’t love anyone but yourself.”
Silence.
“This child deserves better than this.”
The doctor intervenes, uncomfortable:
“Please… stress isn’t good for the baby.”
Silence falls again, cold and tense.
Bianca doesn’t take her eyes off me.
Her jaw tightens.
But her gaze remains perfectly clear.
“Fine,” she says at last. “We’ll do a test when the baby is born, if that’s what you want.”
A faint smile curves her lips.
“But I already know the answer.”
I hold her gaze.
“It’s up to you whether you want to keep playing this game. Whatever you try, you won’t manipulate me anymore. It’s over.”
She stares at me, hatred burning in her eyes. She understands.
Something shifts in her expression colder, sharper.
“You think you’ve won?” she murmurs.
She takes a step toward me.
“Not even close.”
A slow, dangerous smile.
“You’ll pay for this.”
Her voice turns soft again.
“And you’ll come back.”
A beat.
“On your knees.”
I don’t respond. There’s nothing to gain by dragging this out.
I turn to the doctor, who is now watching us with professional restraint.
“Thank you, doctor.”
I walk out, and the door closes behind me.
I look for Valeria.
She’s there, sitting in the waiting room, hands clasped on her lap, pale as a sheet.
Stephen is beside her—solid, silent. I’m grateful he’s there for her.
She sees me.
Her gaze flicks first to the door behind me, instinctively looking for Bianca, then comes back to me, confusion growing.
I’m alone.
I walk toward her. I don’t check who might be watching from the reception desk or the other seats in the waiting room.
I don’t care.
I pull her into my arms.
She folds into me as if her body still remembers exactly how to fit against mine.
“The baby isn’t mine,” I tell her against her temple.
Her whole body goes rigid, as if the words don’t register.
She pulls back just enough to look into my eyes, searching for confirmation.
“The baby isn’t mine,” I repeat.
I don’t break eye contact. I let her find the answer there.
Her eyes widen, stunned. Then her lips part slightly. And the tears come—a silent overflow, almost involuntary, as if her body is finally releasing a tension it’s been carrying for far too long.
She presses herself against me.
I feel the relief move through her. Her fingers clutch at my jacket, and she says nothing. There’s nothing to say.
Not here. Not yet.
I guide her gently toward the exit, my hand at her back, and we slip into the cold light of the parking lot before Bianca has time to reappear. Stephen follows us without a word.
We settle into the back seat of the car.
Valeria keeps her head against my shoulder, one hand in mine. I can still feel the faint tremor running through her at intervals—the adrenaline fading, her body learning how to breathe normally again.
Stephen starts the engine without a word and pulls the car out.
Through the window, the clinic buildings drift away and disappear.
I press my lips to the top of Valeria’s head.
There’s still a lot to untangle.
But for now, I don’t need anything else.
Just this.
Her body against mine.