An hour later, I was sitting in the back of Dante’s black sedan.

Two guards sat in the front, and two followed in a separate vehicle behind us.

The clinic was located in a modern medical complex with high glass windows.

The rain was pouring harder now, blurring the glass entry doors.

The guards escorted me inside, their eyes scanning the lobby.

“We will wait right here, ma’am,” the lead guard, a broad-shouldered man named Leo, said near the reception desk.

“Thank you,” I said, walking toward the private corridor leading to the examination rooms.

The hallway was quiet, smelling of antiseptic and lavender.

I checked in with the receptionist, who smiled and told me to wait in Room 204.

I walked down the corridor and pushed open the door to the small room.

The room was empty, containing only an examination table and a screen for the ultrasound.

I sat on the edge of the padded table, my hands gripping the crinkling vinyl paper.

The door opened behind me, and I turned, expecting the doctor.

Instead, a woman in a white lab coat stepped inside.