Yura leaned back against the leather seat, letting the luxury of the clinic's waiting room surround her—soft jazz in the background, filtered morning light through gauzy curtains, not a trace of hospital sterility. The private obstetrician was one of the best in Barcelona, tucked away in a neighborhood where doormen nodded politely and paparazzi never lingered. She felt safe here, away from the chaos of the world and the previous night's messy, delirious revelry.
The doctor's voice was warm and gentle, and Yura was struck again by how different this felt from her other checkups back home. Here, there was time. No rushing, no nurses prodding or muttering about schedules. The doctor laughed with her about baby names, chatted about the coming summer heat, and finally, after a gentle scan and a series of rhythmic, soothing beeps, turned the monitor so Yura could see.
