When my body failed to abort in January—when the hard-wising little heart inside my uterus refused to stop beating—Diego panicked. He invented the history of the vasectomy, orchestrated the public scandal and tried to force me to sign an emergency divorce agreement before the sixteen-week ultrasound revealed the true chronology of conception.
“You knew it,” I whispered.
The words were barely stronger than a whisper, but they went through the room like a razor blade on a dry slate.
“You knew I was pregnant with your child in November, Diego.”
“You knew before you went to the clinic in January.”
“You tried to kill our baby in my own kitchen.”
Diego’s hands began to tremble with violent and uncontrollable paralysis.
His eyes were frantically moving between Marcus, the armed federal agents and the printed ultrasound strip that rested on the cart. The pompous and arrogant executive who had strutted into the cafeteria two weeks ago had disappeared; instead, there was a rounded and terrified rat, trapped under the glow of a powerful spotlight.
“Laura... Laura, listen to me!” Diego pleaded, with a broken voice and hoarseness, as he pounced on the bed and reached out to me. It was not my idea! It was my father's! It was Arthur's! Arthur told me that the company had a debt of sixty million dollars to Swiss lenders! He said if we didn’t activate the reversion clause before the end of the first quarter, the banks would seize everything! Paula was the one who bought the chemicals online! I swear to God, Laura, I tried to stop her!
“COBARDE!” Paula shouted from the wall, throwing herself forward with well-kept nails exposed and hitting Diego on the cheek with a brutal and heartbreaking punch.
