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“No,” Étienne said with disgust. “I don’t want to see further evidence of her betrayal.”

“But they would show,” I begged. “They will show that the baby is yours. Look at him.”

“Sit back,” the nurse told me. “You are breathing so hard you might hyperventilate.”

The entire room was silent.

“There is no reason not to!” I insisted.

Étienne wasn’t looking at me, and it was like being plunged into darkness.

“Fine,” he said in a tight voice and I felt almost weak with relief again, as the nurse hastened to switch to the much more defined 5D imaging, and in only a few seconds vivid, colorful images of our son filled the screen.

These were much more detailed and even my wrecked and anxious heart filled with joy as I watched our baby’s strong, determined fists and the perfection of each tiny finger and toe.

“That’s him,” I said, and this time the tears felt happy.

How could they not be? I was looking at the evidence that my husband loved me, that he chose me. That he had put a baby in me.

“Étienne, look,” I almost laughed. “Look at the shape of his nose. Look at the color of his hair. He looks like you. He’s yours.”

My husband said nothing, still standing in front of the screen, his tall, strong frame with all its suppressed power and vitality concentrated on the image of our baby in my belly.

Claim him, I wanted to beg. You must feel what I do, that urge to protect and cherish our baby. I know you love him. You must.

“You know who it looks like,” Faustine said, as she and Placidie stared at the screen.

“Who?” I asked.

“Your brother’s friend Bruno. One of the Pinoteaux guards.”

The blood seemed to drain from my face.

“He does not! He does not look like Bruno! I’ve barely even seen Bruno since I got married.”

“Are you sure?” Faustine said.

“What do you think?” my mother-in-law asked Étienne, shooting me a venomous look.

“I know nothing about babies. But I don't see any evidence of Bastide blood.”

I could only stare in disbelief.

Where had that condom wrapper come from? The cigarette pack? What motive did anyone have for falsely incriminating me?

Étienne was still staring at the screen, and Faustine came up behind him, her pink-tipped nails touching his elbow and my stomach sunk to see the easy familiarity between them, the way he turned and bent down to listen to what she had to say.

“That hair color—yours is black, but this baby’s looks brown. And I don’t think the nose is your shape either.”

“You’re right,” my husband said. “That is not my baby.”

“I told you,” Placidie said. “I told you about marrying into the Pinoteaux. They are not trustworthy.”

I lurched upright, swinging my feet off the exam table.

“How can you say that isn’t your baby? The one we have been so excited for?”

But Étienne’s face was set.