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“You’ll suffer naturally because you’re toxic,” my doctor husband sneered, blocking the nurses from performing a C-section for my giant 10-pound baby as revenge for his intern. I writhed in pain, clutching the bed rails until my knuckles turned white. When the grueling delivery finally ended, the heavy delivery room doors banged open. My husband staggered in, his face drained of color as he looked at the newborn chart, fell to the floor, and shrieked, “No… that’s impossible! Whose child is-“

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floor-to-ceiling reinforced glass of my expansive new office at Barrett Medical Center. I sat enthroned behind a slab of imported obsidian desk, sipping a cortado. The encrypted line on my desk chimed. It was Raymond Finch, and he was laughing so hard he was practically wheezing.

“Allison, your intuition is bordering on the clairvoyant,” Raymond choked continue reading …

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