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Emma's hand shook as she reached for her phone. Her finger trembled as she played the first voicemail. The doctor's calm, clinical tone delivered words that shattered her world. Massive stroke. Critical condition. Next of kin needed immediately.

"No, no, no." The whisper fractured the peaceful darkness.

James stirred beside her. "Emma? What is wrong?"

"I have to go." She scrambled from the warm bed, fumbling for clothes scattered across the floor. Panic crashed over her in cold waves, bringing choking guilt. She had been here, wrapped in silk sheets and a stranger's arms, while her grandmother lay dying.

"Emma, slow down." James rose, his brow furrowed with concern. "Let me help. I will drive you."

"No." She pulled away from his offered hand, yanking on her dress. "I do not have time. I should have been home. I should have answered my phone."

She could not look at him, could not let him see her fall apart. This magical night now felt like a terrible mistake, a beautiful distraction that might have cost her everything. Her stomach churned, a physical manifestation of the guilt twisting inside her.

"At least let me call you a car." His voice was firm but gentle. "Give me your number. Let me check on you."

She grabbed hotel stationery and scribbled her number, her hand shaking so badly the pen skipped on the last digit, smearing ink into an unreadable mark. She was already moving toward the door, her mind a storm of fear and guilt.

"Last night was..." She could not finish. Beautiful. Perfect. A dream she had to wake from.

"I am sorry."

She fled without looking back.

The taxi ride blurred into streaking city lights and frantic, silent prayers. James Wilson and their incredible night already felt like a memory from another lifetime.

After she left, James lay back down, exhaustion pulling him into a restless doze. Hours later, in the gray light of morning, he woke fully to profound emptiness. His heightened senses registered her absence immediately. The cooling sheets. The fading scent of vanilla on his pillow. An ache started in his chest, a physical reaction he could not suppress.

Then he found the note on the nightstand. Hasty handwriting, the words polite and distant. Thank you for a lovely evening. Below it, a phone number with the final digit smudged beyond recognition.

He stared at the paper, something cold settling in his gut. The warmth from hours ago turned to ice in his veins.

He tried the phone number, carefully filling in different possibilities for the smudged digit. Each attempt met with disconnected tones or wrong numbers. His frustration mounted with each failed call.

He crumpled the useless paper in his fist. Of course. Of course the number was fake. He had allowed himself vulnerability with a human, and she had left without explanation, leaving only a polite brush-off.

His wolf snarled in his mind, wounded and furious.

"Never again," he thought, the words a harsh vow.

He called his assistant, demanding a search for an Emma Lopez who worked for Artful Appetites Catering. The results came back within hours. Dozens of Emma Lopezes existed in Crestwood. The catering company appeared to be a temporary business name used for a single event, with no permanent office or employee records.

She had vanished completely. Like a ghost.

James hardened his heart, concluding she was like all the others. Another human who had used him for a night and walked away. The brief hope he had felt, lying in the dark with her in his arms, now felt like a cruel joke.

He would not make that mistake again.

At the hospital, Emma ran through sterile corridors until she found her grandmother's ICU room. The woman who had taught her to cook, to laugh, to dream looked impossibly small and frail, lost in tubes and wires that beeped with cruel, artificial life.

"Abuela," Emma whispered, her voice breaking as she took her grandmother's cool, unresponsive hand.

The doctor explained the prognosis in gentle terms. The damage was significant. Recovery would take months, if it came at all. Emma's world narrowed to that single point of contact, her hand holding her grandmother's.

For days, Emma sat vigil, her world shrinking to the rhythmic sounds of machines. Her phone, thrust into her purse in her haste to leave the hotel, eventually died. She did not think to charge it. Nothing existed beyond those four white walls.

The next three weeks passed in a blur of grief and exhaustion. Days were spent at the hospital, holding her grandmother's hand and whispering stories of their shared past. Nights were spent working extra catering shifts, her body moving on autopilot while her mind replayed every doctor's report.

The magical night at the Grand Crestwood Hotel faded into a distant, painful memory. There was no time to dwell on the man from the hotel, no space in her heart for anything but gnawing fear for her grandmother and crushing responsibility.

But her body remembered what her mind tried to forget.

The fatigue began subtly. Then came waves of nausea she attributed to stress and grief. She ignored the signs until she could not anymore.

One morning, the world tilted. She stood in her tiny, sunlit bathroom, staring at two pink lines on a positive pregnancy test. Dizziness washed over her, and she gripped the sink for support.

She thought of James, of his intense gaze and the smudged, useless phone number. She had no way to find him, no way to tell him that their one perfect night had created a new life.

Terror flickered through her, followed by a fierce protectiveness. Emma pressed a hand to her still-flat stomach and made a decision. She would handle this alone, just as she had handled everything else.

This child would be hers, and hers alone.

She tried one final time to find James. She called the Grand Crestwood Hotel, but they informed her that Mr. Wilson had checked out the morning after the gala with no forwarding information. Hotel policy prevented them from releasing guest details or contact information.

She could not afford a private investigator. A desperate internet search for "James Wilson CEO" yielded dozens of results, executives in various cities and industries. Without knowing his company name or having any other identifying information, the search felt hopeless. She tried calling several Wilson Industries offices, but secretaries stonewalled her, refusing to confirm whether a James Wilson worked there without an appointment or more specific information.

After a week of dead ends, exhausted and overwhelmed, Emma accepted her new reality. She was alone.

Her grandmother stabilized slowly over the following weeks, though she would never fully recover. Emma juggled medical bills, pregnancy symptoms, and relentless work. When a lawyer appeared at her door six months later with an offer from the H.M. Foundation, a generous monthly payment to support single mothers, she was too desperate to refuse. Too exhausted to question the timing or the anonymity.

She simply accepted the lifeline and moved forward.

Six years later, Ryan lifted the dining table with one hand.

Emma watched her son, her impossible, beautiful son, casually perform an act that should have been impossible. The other children at the playdate screamed. Their mothers stared, mouths open in shock and fear.

"Ryan, put that down. Now." Emma's voice was sharp with panic.

He did, confusion clouding his small face. "I was just helping, Mama."

That night, the letter arrived. Cream envelope. No return address.

Inside, a single line: We know what he is. We can help. Or we can expose him.

Below it, a job offer. Private chef position. Generous salary. Room and board included.

Emma's hands shook as she read the address. An estate on the outskirts of Crestwood.

She had no choice. She was too desperate to refuse.