“Roman Whitlock.

Larissa Bishop.

This event is now evidence.” And the room cracked open into chaos.

A screen descended behind the floral arch — someone on our side had thought of everything — and onto it bloomed Larissa’s original clinic record, the real one, time-stamped and verified: negative pregnancy test, no ultrasound, no miscarriage, nothing.

“That’s fake!” Larissa shrieked, and Priya, standing very straight in that glittering room full of people who had once looked down on her, lifted her chin.

“No,” she said.