Riley's POV
The change in Gerald was immediate and terrifying.
One second he was staring at me with those hollow eyes, the phone still clutched in his hand. The next, his entire face had rearranged itself into something carefully blank, a mask I recognized all too well from our past. The mask he wore when he was breaking apart inside but refused to let anyone see.
"Gerald?" I tried again, my voice smaller than I wanted it to be.
He blinked, and whatever flashed in his eyes was gone. "I'm sorry," he said, his tone crisp, and polite. "The jet lag is hitting me hard. I need to rest."
Jet lag. Right. Because that's what made a man look like his world had just ended.
I wanted to push, to demand answers, but the words died in my throat. What right did I have? I wasn't really his wife. I was a ghost wearing her skin, and the guilt of that realization hit me fresh and sharp.
"Of course," I heard myself say. "You must be really exhausted."
He nodded once. "I'll check on you both later. If you need anything, the staff will assist you."
"The staff." Not "I'll take care of you." Not, "Tell me what you need." The staff.
He turned to leave, and panic surged in my chest. "Gerald, wait…."
He paused at the door but didn't turn around.
"Cynthia,I said quickly. Don't you want to see her before you go?"
The silence stretched too long. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. "Later. When I'm more… myself."
Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that made my ribs ache.
I stared at the closed door, Cynthia's soft breaths the only sound in the room. Something devastating had happened during that call. Something that had turned Gerald from distant to utterly unreachable.
"Riley Stevenson."
Those two words I'd heard through the phone kept echoing in my head. My name. My real name. Had something happened to my body? Was someone looking for me? Did anyone even know I was dead?
I looked down at Cynthia, her tiny face peaceful in sleep, and felt that fierce protectiveness surge again. Whatever mess I'd stumbled into, this innocent child didn't deserve to bear its weight.
"I've got you," I whispered, brushing a finger against her cheek. "I promise."
Even if I had no idea how to keep that promise.
********
The hospital days blurred into a haze of routine, nursing consultations, pediatric checkups, and a loneliness that clung like damp air.
Gerald never came back.
Oh, he sent things, a steady stream of deliveries that arrived like clockwork. Designer baby clothes still bearing tags. Expensive toiletries. Fresh flowers that a maid arranged in crystal vases. A leather diaper bag that screamed wealth. Everything I could need, except the one thing that actually mattered.
Him.
The staff were impeccable, polite, professional, They called me Mrs. Roth and treated me like I was fragile, precious. But their eyes betrayed them, pity lurking behind their smiles. They knew the truth of this marriage, even if I was only beginning to piece it together.
On the second day, a woman arrived, her warm eyes and gentle demeanor a small comfort. "Mrs. Roth, I'm Paulette Kind," she said. "Mr. Roth hired me as Cynthia's nanny."
Nanny. He'd hired a nanny without even discussing it with me.
"Oh." I forced a smile, adjusting Cynthia in my arms. "That's… thoughtful of him."
Paulette's expression softened with understanding that made my throat tight. "He wants to ensure you have all the support you need during recovery. And After."
"After." A polite way of saying he wouldn't be there.
But Paulette was kind, patient. She showed me how to soothe Cynthia, explained feeding schedules, and when I broke down crying, overwhelmed by hormones and the impossible reality of my situation, she handed me tissues and looked away,pretended not to notice.
"It gets easier," she said quietly. "Being a mother. You'll find your rhythm."
If only she knew I'd never wanted to be a mother. That this body, this baby, this entire life was never meant to be mine.
Two weeks later, the doctor cleared us for discharge.
I should have felt relieved. Instead, dread pooled in my stomach as Martha, one of the maids Gerald had sent, helped pack our bags. Paulette wore Cynthia a soft pink outfit, and I changed into Erica's clothes.
The drive through Manhattan was surreal. I pressed my face to the tinted window of the black Mercedes, watching the city I'd loved from inside a life I didn't recognize. We passed streets I knew, neighborhoods where Riley Stevenson had lived and laughed and made a thousand mistakes.
Everything familiar, yet completely out of reach now.
"That life is gone, "You're someone else now," I reminded myself.
The Roth mansion wasn't a home. It was a statement.
Tall iron gates swung open automatically as we approached, revealing a stone facade that looked like it belonged in a European city, not Manhattan. Beautiful gardens. A circular driveway with a fountain at its center. Windows that gleamed like cold eyes.
The car stopped, and my pulse raced. You can do this, I told myself. You've faked confidence at gallery openings full of pretentious collectors. This is just another act.
Except this performance meant convincing an entire household I was someone they'd known for years.
James, the driver, opened my door. "Welcome home, Mrs. Roth."
Home. The word tasted like a lie.
I stepped out, still tender from the incision, and a woman in a gray uniform hurried down the steps, her face bright with warmth.
"Mrs. Roth! We're so glad you're back safely! Let me take the baby."
She reached for Cynthia's carrier, and I tightened my grip before forcing myself to relax. This is Erica's home. Act like you belong.
"Thank you…" I paused, praying she'd offer her name.
Her smile faltered slightly, confusion flickering across her features. "Mrs. Beatrice, ma'am. Are you feeling alright?"
Mrs. Beatrice . The housekeeper. Erica would have known that.
Panic clawed at my throat, but I kept my expression calm. "The medication," I said, touching my head. "They had me on quite a lot at the hospital. Everything's still a bit… foggy. I might need some patience."
Her concern deepened, but she nodded. "Of course, ma'am. You've been through so much. Let me take your bags. Martha, help Mrs. Roth inside."
Martha appeared, guiding me up the steps. My legs trembled, from physical weakness and partly from the terror of what I was attempting.
The entry hall stole my breath.
Soaring ceilings. Marble floors polished to a mirror shine. A chandelier sparkled like a crown. Paintings, real, museum-worthy pieces, hung casually on the walls.
"Oh my God," I whispered before I could stop myself.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Mrs. Beatrice said, misreading my shock. "You picked out that Rothko yourself last year."
A Rothko. My curator's heart screamed. I had chosen this?
"Of course," I lied, my voice smooth. "It's stunning in this light."
Mrs. Beatrice beamed. "Would you like a tour, or straight to your room to rest?"
A tour. As if I'd never seen my own home. I had to be careful.
"Upstairs, please," I said. "I'm tired. But… could you show me where things are? The medication's made my memory spotty. I'd hate to get lost."
I added a small laugh, and Mrs. Beatrice's expression softened. "Of course, dear. We'll get you settled and walk you through everything."
If only they knew I was trying to learn, not remember.
We climbed a grand staircase, and I memorized every detail: dark wood banisters, family portraits, Gerald's father staring sternly from a gilded frame. A younger Gerald, before grief had etched lines into his face.
"Your suite is this way," Mrs. Beatrice said, leading me past several doors. "Mr. Roth's study is there, the library's that way, and the guest suites are in the east wing."
Guest suites. Plural. Separate from the master bedroom.
My stomach sank.
She opened double doors to a bedroom that felt like a museum exhibit, beautiful, untouchable. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the gardens. A massive bed, draped in ivory silk, dominated the room. A velvet chaise sat beside bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes.
But the room screamed of absence. One nightstand held personal items. a book, glasses, a water bottle. The other was bare. In the walk-in closet, one side overflowed with women's clothes; the other held a sparse collection of suits, with gaps suggesting most had been moved elsewhere.
"The nursery's through here," Mrs. Beatrice said, opening an adjoining door.
The nursery was pristine, all soft grays and whites. Tasteful, but cold. A designer's vision, not a mother's.
"Mr. Roth had it designed during your pregnancy," Mrs. Beatrice said proudly. "Spared no expense."
Designed. Not decorated with love. Hired out.
Paulette settled Cynthia in the crib, and Martha arranged diapers and wipes with efficiency. Mrs. Beatrice showed me the bottle warmer, the mini-fridge with formula. "You're breastfeeding, I understand."
"Yes," I said, grateful for the information. "Thank you."
She listed the staff: herself, the head housekeeper; Martha, general housekeeping; James, the driver; Cook; Peter, who prepared meals; Thomas, the groundskeeper. I nodded, committing names to memory.
"And… Gerald?" I asked carefully. "Where's his room?"
Her expression shifted, pity, discomfort. "He's been using the guest suite in the east wing. For your privacy during recovery."
Privacy. Sure.
"I see," I said softly. "And does he… is he here now?"
"He's at the office, ma'am. He said he'd try to be home for dinner."
Try. Not will. Try.
Of Course.
"Thank you," I said. "I'd like to rest. Could you have lunch sent up? Whatever Cook thinks best."
"Of course! Your favorite tomato bisque, I'm sure."
She left with Martha, their whispers fading down the hall. Paulette stayed, quietly organizing the nursery.
I sank onto the unused side of the bed, staring at a room that wasn't mine. Wedding photos lined the dresser, Gerald and Erica on a tropical beach, both in designer attire, smiling without joy. Erica was stunning, refined in a way I'd never been.
This could have been us, I thought, guilt twisting in my chest. If I hadn't run from Gerald five years ago. If I hadn't broken his heart.
I explored the closet, needing to understand Erica. Designer clothes filled the racks, Valentino, Chanel, Dior; most unworn, tags dangling. But tucked in the back were casual pieces: jeans, soft sweaters, T-shirts. Clothes for a simpler life she'd never lived.
"God, Riley," I whispered to my reflection in the glass. "What an idiot you were."
Then I saw it, a leather-bound journal on a high shelf. I stretched to reach it, wincing at the pull on my incision.
I shouldn't have opened it. It was private, a violation. But I couldn't stop.
Pages detailed Erica's life: charity events, Gerald's schedule, pregnancy notes. All in elegant handwriting, controlled and precise. Then I reached the final entry, dated the day before Cynthia's birth.
My throat tightened..
Tomorrow I'll meet her. R.S. The woman he loved. She accepted my invitation to the gallery opening. Maybe seeing her will explain why I'm not enough. Why he looks through me, like I'm glass. I don't blame her, she didn't know he'd marry me to forget her. But I'm so tired of being a placeholder, of sleeping alone, of watching him stay late to avoid me. Maybe tomorrow I'll understand. Or maybe it'll just confirm what I've always known: I was never the one he wanted.
Tears blurred my vision.
R.S. Riley Stevenson. Me.
Erica had known. She'd planned to meet me, the ghost haunting her marriage. And we'd both died before it could happen.
A sob tore from my throat. I clutched the journal, guilt crashing over me. Erica, kind, lonely, desperate, had suffered because of me. Because I'd rejected Gerald, leaving him to marry her in a futile attempt to move on.
"I'm so sorry," I whispered, knowing she couldn't hear.
Cynthia stirred, and I wiped my eyes, forcing myself to focus. She needed me, her mother, whoever that was now.
Dinner arrived; tomato bisque, rich and fragrant. I ate alone, Cynthia asleep beside me. Gerald never came. Mrs. Beatrice collected the tray, murmuring apologies about a late meeting.
I stood before the bathroom mirror, staring at Erica's face; honey-blonde hair, sharp cheekbones, wide eyes. But the fear in those eyes was Riley's.
"Who are you?" I whispered. "Erica? Riley? Both?"
The reflection offered no answers.
I slipped into a silk nightgown and climbed into the cold bed. Gerald's side was untouched, as if he hadn't slept there in years.
Somewhere in this mansion, he was avoiding me, grieving the woman I used to be. And I was here, living in his wife's body, raising her child.
This wasn't a second chance. It was a sentence for breaking his heart.
But for Cynthia, I'd endure it. I'd be the mother she deserved, the woman Erica should have been.
"I'll do better," I promised silently. "I'll make this mean something."
Even if it broke me all over again.