Gerald's POV
The hospital corridors smelled like antiseptic and despair, a scent I'd grown numb to over the years of owning this place. My shoes clicked against polished floors as I made my way toward the recovery wing, each step heavier than the last.
Thirty-six hours without sleep. A red-eye from London. A multi-million dollar deal signed with hands that wouldn't stop shaking because somewhere in this building, my wife had nearly died bringing our daughter into the world.
"Our daughter."
The words felt foreign in my mind, like a language I'd never bothered to learn.
I paused outside the recovery room door, straightening my tie out of habit. Armor. That's what the expensive suits were, armor against feeling anything real. The nurse had briefed me: successful C-section, baby healthy, mother flatlined for two minutes but resuscitated. All clinical facts I could process without emotion.
That's what I did best now. Process without feeling.
I pushed open the door.
The woman in the bed looked tired, fragile in a way Erica never had before. Her honey-blonde hair spilled across the pillow, and for a moment, something in my chest tightened. Guilt, maybe. Or just exhaustion.
She looked up, and our eyes met.
My breath ceased.
Something was different. In her eyes, those wide, startled eyes, I saw something I'd never seen before in all our years of marriage. Recognition? No, that wasn't quite right. It was more like she was seeing me for the first time, really seeing me, and the weight of that gaze made me want to turn around and walk out.
She looked shocked, Her mouth opened like she had seen a ghost and frozen.
"Gerald….." My name on her lips sounded wrong. Breathless. Almost afraid.
"Erica." I stepped inside, letting the door close behind me with a soft click that felt too loud in the silence. "You're awake."
Brilliant observation. God, when had I become so terrible at this?
She didn't respond immediately, just stared at me like I was a ghost. Her hand moved to her chest, pressing against the hospital gown, and I noticed the trembling in her fingers.
"The baby?" I asked, my voice flat. Professional. Like I was asking about quarterly reports.
"She's…." Erica's voice cracked. That husky tone I'd grown used to in our loveless marriage, but something underneath it sounded different. Raw. "She's perfect. Healthy."
"Good." I nodded once, shoving my hands into my pockets. "That's good."
The bassinet stood beside her bed. I should go look. A real husband would rush over, coo at his newborn daughter, kiss his wife's forehead in relief. But my feet stayed rooted to the spot, and Erica's eyes tracked every micro-expression on my face like she was searching for something.
"Do you want to…" She gestured weakly toward the bassinet, and I caught the hesitation in her movement. Like she was trying to remember how her body worked.
Jet lag. That's what this strange feeling was. Jet lag and exhaustion made everything feel surreal.
"What did you name her?" The question came out rougher than intended.
Erica blinked, confusion flashing across her features before she answered. "Cynthia."
Cynthia….. She named her after her mother. I nodded again, that gesture that meant nothing. "It's a good name."
"Gerald." There was something pleading in the way she said it this time, and I forced myself to look at her properly. "Don't you want to hold her?"
The question hung between us like an accusation.
Did I?
This child I'd never wanted. The product of one drunken night nine months ago when I'd stumbled home from an outing with friends and found my wife still awake, and for once, just once, I'd been drunk enough to pretend she was someone else. To close my eyes and imagine different hair, different laughs, different everything.
Riley.
Her name was acid in my throat.
"I'll meet her when we're home," I heard myself say. Distant. Cold. "When you're both settled."
Hurt flashed across Erica's face, real, genuine hurt that I'd never seen her show before. In five years of marriage, she'd perfected the art of polite indifference, matching my own emotional detachment with practiced grace. But now she looked… wounded.
I looked away. Easier that way.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I'd never been more grateful for an interruption. "Excuse me. I need to take this."
I pulled it out, glancing at the screen. Kester. My oldest friend, the only person who'd known me before I became this hollow version of myself.
I turned slightly away, pressing accept. "Kester."
"Gerald." His voice was strange. Tight with something I couldn't identify. "Where are you?"
"Hospital. Erica had the baby while I was in London. I just got back."
Silence.
Too long of a silence.
"Kester?"
"Gerald, I…" He exhaled sharply. "Jesus, I don't know how to tell you this."
Ice flooded my veins. "What happened?"
"There was an accident last night. A hit-and-run on Fifth Avenue."
My hand tightened around the phone. Fifth Avenue.
"Who?"
"It's Riley", Kester said.
The world tilted.
Riley. Riley Stevenson. The name I didn't let myself think of. The woman I'd tried to forget by marrying someone else. The one who'd looked at me on Montauk Beach five years ago and said "I don't love you enough to marry you" with such devastating honesty that it had shattered something fundamental inside me.
"Gerald? Are you there?"
"Is she…." I couldn't finish the question. My throat had closed around the words.
"She died on impact. I'm sorry, man. I know you two… I know it's been years, but I thought you should hear it from me."
Dead. Riley was dead.
The phone nearly slipped from my fingers. I turned back toward the bed, and Erica was watching me with those strange, too-knowing eyes. Something in her expression made my blood run cold, like she could hear every word Kester was saying, like she understood exactly what this meant.
"I have to go," I managed to tell Kester. "I'll call you back."
I ended the call, and the silence in the room was suffocating. Erica's face had gone pale, her lips parted like she wanted to say something but couldn't find the words.
"Gerald?" Her voice was barely a whisper. "What's wrong?"
Everything. Everything was wrong. Riley was dead, and I was standing in a hospital room with a wife I'd never loved and a daughter I didn't know how to want, and somewhere in the chaos of emotions I'd spent five years suppressing, something was screaming that this wasn't right, that nothing about this moment made sense.
"Nothing," I lied, my voice hollow. "Everything's fine."
The word "fine" tasted like ash on my tongue, and from the way Erica flinched, she knew I was lying too.