After His Mistress Claimed My AI Husband’s Baby

I took the paper from Kinslee's hands.

She didn't want to let go at first. Her fingers stayed curled around the edges for a second too long, like she was holding onto something that might float away. Then she released it, and I held the paternity report up to the light.

The room went quiet. Even Ember stopped talking, which was probably the first time all afternoon her mouth had been closed. I could hear the buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead. The faint hum of Ember's ring light. My own breathing, slow and even.

I read the document line by line. Laboratory name. Test date. Alleged father: Maximilian Knight. Probability of paternity: 99.99%.

I flipped it over. Checked the back. Turned it right-side up again.

Then I picked up my phone.

I didn't unlock it. I just held it next to the paper, angling both toward Ember's camera so her fifty-seven thousand viewers could see exactly what I was looking at.

"The lab certification number," I said. My voice was flat. Clinical. "LCA-4478-WA. That's what's printed here."

I opened my browser. Typed with one hand while holding the paper steady with the other. Washington State Department of Health. Accredited laboratories. Search function.

I entered the number.

No results found.

I turned the phone screen toward the camera. Let it sit there for three full seconds.

"There is no accredited lab in Washington State with that certification number," I said.

Kinslee's mouth opened. No sound came out.

I set the phone down and picked up the paper again. "The format," I continued, tracing one finger along the header. "This template. I've seen it before."

I pulled up another browser window. Typed: medical paternity report template free download.

The first result was a stock template site. I clicked it. The preview image loaded.

It was identical. Same fonts. Same spacing. Same placeholder text for lab name and certification number.

I held my phone up again. Split-screened the template and the paper Kinslee had given me.

Ember's camera zoomed in. I could hear her breathing change, just slightly, like she'd inhaled and forgotten to let it out.

"And the attending physician," I said. I scrolled down to the signature line. "Dr. Raymond Chou, MD. License number 47832-FL."

I opened a new tab. Florida Department of Health physician lookup.

Dr. Raymond Chou. Dermatology. License status: retired, 2019.

I turned the screen toward the camera one more time.

"He's a dermatologist," I said. "In Florida. And he's been retired for five years."

The comment section — I couldn't see it, but I could hear it in the way Ember's face changed. The way her eyes flicked down to her phone, then back up to me, then down again.

Kinslee made a small sound. Not quite a word. Just a noise, high and thin, like air escaping.

"I don't — that's not —" She looked at Brycen. Her hands were shaking again, but this time it didn't look staged. It looked real.

"Someone made a mistake," Brycen said. He stepped forward, filling the space between my desk and the door. "Labs make mistakes. That doesn't mean —"

"Three mistakes," I said. "On the same document."

I set the paper down on my desk, right next to my red pen and my open planner. Tuesday, 2-4 PM, office hours. Everything exactly where it was supposed to be.

Then I picked up my phone again.

I scrolled to the M's. Found his name. Pressed call.

It rang once. Twice.

"Maximilian," I said when he answered. My voice was quiet. So quiet Ember's microphone barely caught it. "Come to campus. Bring the manual."

I hung up.

Brycen stared at me. "What manual?"

I didn't answer.

"What manual?" he said again, louder this time. His voice cracked on the second word.

I folded my hands on the desk. Looked at Kinslee. She was still crying, but it was different now. Messy. Uncontrolled. Not the kind of crying that looked good on camera.

"He'll be here in twenty minutes," I said.

Ember's phone was still recording. The little red light blinked steady in the corner of my vision. Sixty-two thousand viewers now.

Outside my window, the crowd of students had grown. I could see their faces pressed against the glass, phones raised, recording everything.

Nelson Grant was still in the hallway, far enough back that he could pretend he wasn't involved, close enough that he could hear every word.

My own phone was still buzzing. Still lighting up with notifications I wasn't reading.

But the room had gone very, very quiet.

I picked up my red pen. Clicked it once. Set it back down.

And I waited.