Page 70 of My Ex's Dad’s Secret Twins

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She looks at me. I look back. After a moment, she writes something on the page. Probablydifficult woman.

“Date of last period?” she asks.

I answer.

“Positive test?”

“Yes.”

“Lie down.”

I do. I hate it. The position is vulnerable in a way that has nothing to do with modesty and everything to do with access. Women are expected to become furniture for information. Table. Stirrups. Breath held. Body translated by strangers.

I stare at the ceiling. There’s a crack above the light fixture, branching outward at the end. I focus on it.

The doctor works efficiently, and the ultrasound begins. The screen turns toward me. I tell myself I’ll not look.

Then I look. Of course I do.

At first, it’s nothing. Gray shapes. Static.

The doctor adjusts the probe. Her face changes.

My body goes cold before my mind can catch up. “What?”

She doesn’t answer immediately. Never a good sign.

“Doctor,” I press.

She turns the screen slightly. “There’s the gestational sac.”

A small shape. Unreal. Too small to carry consequence.

“And there,” she says, “is a second one.”

The room stops. The machine’s hum becomes too loud. The clock disappears. The city outside vanishes. Even my own breathing seems to wait for permission.

“A second,” I say.

“Yes.” The doctor looks at me. “Twins.”

I can’t breathe.

That’s a door closing twice.

I look at the screen. Two small dark spaces. Two beginnings. Two impossibilities.

One child is a complication. One child is leverage and liability. One child is a bloodline with one hand around my throat.

Two is a dynasty. Two is no exit, even a theoretical one. Two is Alessandro Vitale looking at a future not negotiated through contracts or council vote or territory lines, but made inside my body without anyone’s permission, except the one moment I stopped counting properly.

“...too early for much detail,” the doctor continues, not that I hear much. “Approximately five to six weeks. We’ll need a follow-up. You should avoid stress where possible.”

That almost does it. “Avoidstress?”

She meets my gaze. “In my experience, no one appreciates that advice.”

“It’s ambitious.”