The Hunter s Accidental Bride

"No! You can't take my child!"

Her scream shattered the stillness, frantic and raw, but the hospital walls swallowed the sound. No one came. The IV tugged at her wrist, a dull pain she barely registered through as panic gripping her chest. The masked men stood over her, shadows with empty faces, one cradling the tiny bundle of her newborn.

She fought-weak and trembling, her arms heavy as stone. Every movement sent waves of exhaustion through her, but she couldn't stop. "Where are the nurses?" she thought wildly. "Why can't they hear me?"

"Give me back my baby!" she sobbed, her voice cracking as desperation clawed up her throat.

One of the men stepped closer. For an agonising second, hope flickered-was he returning the infant? Her heart rose, her arms already reaching out...

But instead, she felt a sharp sting in her arm. Cold and deliberate.

"No..." she whispered, the word slipping from her lips like sand through fingers.

The room tilted, and the figures above her blurred into something she couldn't fathom.

The last thing she saw was the man turning away with the baby still nestled in his arms.

When she woke, the crib beside her bed was empty.

*********

The buzz of the doorbell sliced through the quiet, startling me. I rushed from the bathroom, throwing on my nightie, my damp hair clinging to my neck. My heart pounded in my chest. "Who could be here at this hour?'

When I opened the door, the breath caught in my throat.

There, slouched and worn, stood Mr. Greystone-my ex-father.

Two months had passed since I left home. Two months since I walked out of the life I'd known for nineteen years. They hadn't fought to keep me. They'd replaced me with someone new-a daughter they actually wanted. Not one phone call. Not one message.

Now, seeing him here on my doorstep, I felt a strange detachment, like I was dreaming.

He looked... different. His once-proud shoulders slumped, and the grey in his hair had spread like ivy. Deep lines carved into his face made him seem older, weaker. If I hadn't known better, I might have mistaken him for a man lost to the streets.

But I knew him too well. Mr. Greystone was not a man who lost control.

"Come in," I said stiffly, stepping aside.

He shuffled into the living room, the weight of his presence filling the space like a storm cloud. I followed, watching him sink into the couch, his hands clutched tightly in his lap as if holding himself together.

[Flashback]

I could still hear his voice from that day, echoing in the back of my mind:

"Emma, we still love you. No matter what, you'll always be our daughter."

The words had felt like a performance, rehearsed and hollow. He said it because he had to, not because he meant it.