The Bitten Born
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The Captain's Regret: Chasing His Runaway Wife
Five years ago, I stared at the pregnancy termination and divorce papers pushed toward me on the cold hospital bed. My husband, NHL superstar Brock Griffin, didn't even have the guts to face me himself. Instead, he sent his fake PR fiancée to force me out before his championship game. "Sign the papers, take the payout, and get out of New York." To support him from the shadows, I had hidden my global medical credentials and worked as a lowly locker-room assistant. In return, I was discarded. I signed the papers, faked the abortion, and fled into the freezing Manhattan rain. For five years, I lived in hiding, raising our twins in secret. But my peaceful life shattered when my five-year-old hacker son accidentally exposed our location to the most ruthless man in New York. Cornered at the airport, Brock pinned me against a concrete pillar, his eyes bloodshot and desperate. "Where is my child, Elizabeth? Where is the baby from five years ago?" I was completely bewildered. He was the one who demanded the termination. He was the one who let that pathetic fake doctor steal my surgical achievements. Why was he acting like a madman tearing the city apart for a baby he ordered me to kill? When he dragged me back to his penthouse, his fake fiancée tried to frame me for assault using forged medical records. She clearly forgot one thing. I am the legendary ghost surgeon Dr. Cynthia, and I'm done hiding.
Chapter 1
Elizabeth POV:
I stared at the divorce agreement on the hospital table, the Griffin family crest stamped at the top making my stomach churn with acid as my fingers twisted into the bedsheets.
Fallon Ware clicked across the VIP ward in seven-inch heels, the pale mole beside her left nostril twitching smugly under the harsh ceiling light as she slid a Montblanc pen toward my hand. As a former team PR socialite who had faked her medical resume to worm her way into the New York Empire's rehab unit, she was finally making her move to replace me.
I raised my head, my vision blurring from the blood rushing to my temples, and spotted my own custom coat draped over her shoulders. My chest felt like a heavy boulder was crushing it, and I let out a cold laugh, swatting the pen away.
"Brock's patience is completely gone, Elizabeth," Fallon whispered, her voice dripping with mockery. "Sign the papers, take the payout, and get out of New York."
I sucked in a sharp breath to stop my fingertips from trembling and crossed my arms.
"If the great Captain of the New York Empire is in such a rush to marry you, why doesn't he have the guts to face his legal wife himself?"
Fallon's face stiffened instantly. She bit her lower lip, fake tears pooling in her eyes as her fingers clutched the hem of her designer skirt.
"Brock is preparing for tomorrow night's Stanley Cup playoff game! He doesn't want to waste a second looking at a pathetic nobody like you."
Watching her pathetic act, I thought of the five years I had spent hiding my global medical credentials, working as a lowly physical therapy assistant in the Empire's locker room just to support Brock from the shadows. A bitter laugh escaped my throat.
I snatched the Montblanc pen, yanked off the cap, and jammed the nib onto the signature line, a dark blot of ink bleeding through the paper.
Fallon flinched back half a step, her voice turning shrill.
"Don't you dare try any tricks!"
Ignoring her screeching, I flicked my wrist and signed my name across the divorce agreement, pressing so hard the tip tore through the back of the page.
I grabbed the signed stack and flung it straight at her chest, the sharp paper edge slicing a faint red line across her collarbone.
She gasped, clutching her chest and glaring at me in disbelief, clearly shocked that the quiet locker room assistant dared to strike back.
I threw off the blanket, swung my legs out of bed, and ripped the IV needle from the back of my hand. Red blood beaded on my skin as I walked straight to the closet without sparing her a glance.
"I'm going to record how violent you are and send it to TMZ!" Fallon shrieked behind me. "The whole city will see what a disgusting Puck Bunny you really are!"
I pulled my old trench coat from the closet, reached into the pocket for the massive check Brock had signed, and ripped it cleanly in half right in front of her face.
The shredded paper fluttered down onto the toes of her heels, leaving her mouth hanging open and her fake tears forgotten.
Walking to the door, I gripped the freezing metal handle and looked back over my shoulder.
"I don't take trash that belongs to you."
I pushed open the heavy door, the sharp smell of disinfectant hitting my nose as I stepped out and slammed her frantic curses behind me.
I ran down the emergency stairwell until a dull cramp twisted in my lower belly, forcing me to brace my hands against the cold concrete wall and pant for air.
A passing nurse paused and asked if I needed help, so I quickly pulled up my trench coat collar to hide my face, muttered a quick apology, and hurried past her.
Bursting out of the hospital lobby, Manhattan's freezing early-winter rain slapped against my cheeks, shocking my senses awake.
I hailed an empty yellow cab, pulled open the back door, and gave the driver the address for JFK Airport.
The driver glanced at my pale face and bleeding hand in the rearview mirror, hesitating.
"Lady, you sure you don't want me to take you to a clinic first?"
I pulled the last few hundred-dollar bills from my wallet, shoved them through the partition, and ordered him to drive as fast as he could without asking questions.
The cab surged forward on the wet asphalt, the massive neon billboard of the Empire's home arena fading into the rain behind us.
I lowered my head and pressed my palm against my flat stomach, feeling the faint pulse of life inside me as hot tears finally spilled onto my bloody knuckles.
In my pocket, my phone screen lit up frantically with Brock's private number, a string of digits that now made my throat close up.
I held down the power button, popped out the SIM card, rolled down the window, and tossed the tiny chip into the howling rain.
When the cab pulled up to the international departures curb at JFK, I stepped out, wrapped my coat tightly around my body, and blended into the crowd.
At the self-service kiosk, I used my backup passport to print a one-way boarding pass to Paris.
At the security checkpoint, when the officer asked me to remove my coat, I instinctively shielded my stomach and gave him a firm look that stopped him from pressing further. I lowered my voice and told him I was pregnant, and asked him to skip the body scanner over my belly. He glanced at my face, nodded once, and waved me through to the pat-down lane without another word.
Sitting on a cold metal seat at the gate, I looked up at the overhead TV just as breaking sports news reported that Empire Captain Brock had mysteriously skipped his pre-game press conference.
Staring at his sharp, cold features on the screen, I felt the last trace of warmth in my chest turn into dead ash.
The boarding announcement echoed through the terminal, and I picked up my light carry-on bag, walking down the jet bridge without looking back.
As the cabin door sealed shut and the plane taxied onto the runway, I closed my eyes, silently swearing that no one would ever take my babies away from me.
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