"Juliette, she's back—you can't be my bride." The clinic fluorescent hummed. I held the slim plastic strip between two fingers like it might explode. "What's the result?" Nurse Heidi asked, leaning over the counter with a pen poised. Her voice was quiet but practical. "Positive," I said. The word came out flat and thin. I folded my hand over the strip before the sound could go any further. "Okay. Have you seen a doctor?" Heidi's tone shifted into checklist mode. "Any bleeding? Pain? Do you have a support—" "Yes, I have a support." I lied. My phone buzzed against my hip. I ignored it until the buzz wouldn't stop. The screen showed Lawson Cross. I didn't pick up. "Juliette, we're going to get you into an exam room," Heidi said. "You can sit. We'll do bloodwork, confirm dates. Prenatal intake—" "Do it," I said. "Do it now." "Good." She smiled like she used to deal with crises every day and sometimes they were small, ordinary things. "I'll get the forms." The hallway smelled of antiseptic and lemon water. A TV on the wall looped a morning show reel: Cross Holdings announced a new streaming slate. A news chyron flashed the Cross family crest for two seconds before cutting to celebrity traffic. The Cross crest felt like a laugh at my ribs. "Heidi, are you okay?" I asked when she returned. "I'm okay. You—" She stopped, read my face. "Who