"Dorothy, the ultrasound confirms the pregnancy," Torsten said as he pushed the paper across the desk.
"Right," Dorothy said. "So?"
Torsten's face tightened with the practiced pity of a surgeon delivering news that belonged to gossip pages. "It's early. Six weeks. You should decide—"
"I already decided." She tapped the scan with one fingertip and did not bother to steady her voice. "I want an operation."
Torsten blinked. "You—are you sure? There are waiting lists. Legal forms. Family counsel should—"
"I do not want counsel," she said. "Schedule it."
Torsten cleared his throat. "There is protocol. Given your involvement with Mr. Laurent's estate, PR will want to be informed. Ethics committee—"
"You tell PR they're canceled. I signed up to be a doctor, not a headline." Her eyes did not move from the paper. "Book me for the next available slot. No press. No family."
Silence filled the small exam room, a silence Torsten had learned to lace with soft words and the occasional medical inevitability. He owed the Laurents more than polite company; Summit Hospital owed them a ledger of favors.
"That's risky," he said. "The queue is full. There's paperwork—"
"I signed the consent form. I can wait in a bed. Or I can take the earlier slot if someone cancels. Move people."
Torsten rubbed his forehead. "Miss Flowers, you understand the complications—"
"I understand." She folded her hands. "I understand enough."
Torsten shuffled papers and made a call with the
