Linsy’s unhappiness was a palpable force, a heavy cloak she wore despite the bright, indifferent sun. She felt trapped, cornered by the two-month delay and the life growing secretly within her.

"Yes," she lied, her voice brittle, "I am very happy." The words tasted like ash.

Michael saw right through the fragile facade. His gaze was a laser, dissecting her every micro-expression. "Your so-called 'better method'," he stated, his voice dripping with cold disdain, "is to hire a lawyer."

Linsy ...