"We're getting a divorce." Dylan's voice is flat through the phone. I press the ultrasound printout against my ribs until the paper bends. "Excuse me?" I say. "That's what I said." He doesn't sound surprised to say it. He sounds practiced. "Why—" I start. The nurse at the nurses' station glances up. A man two chairs down looks over, frowning. "Dylan, I'm pregnant." A pause. "I know." "I counted on you," I say. My voice is steady because I need to be steady. "We're married." "I never signed up for uncertainty, Brielle." He names me the way he does in meetings, like a file label. "You and the baby complicate things I don't want." A hand on my shoulder. "Mrs. Vorobyov?" I look up. Dr. Medina is waiting with a tablet in his hand and a frown I don't want to match. "Are you all right?" he asks. "I'm fine," I say. "I'm talking to my husband." He steps close. He whispers, careful with the professional calm people hand you in a hospital. "We need a decision. At seven months, the risks change." "Seven months is different," Nurse Estelle says behind him. She folds her hands like she doesn't want to seem intrusive but wants to be real. "Different how?" I ask. I keep my tone small. Small keeps doors open. "Intervention now could endanger you both," Dr. Medina says. "Waiting increases fetal viability but raises maternal risks if