Everything felt wrong. Heavy. Like my body wasn't mine anymore, like someone had taken me apart and tried to put me back together the wrong way.
Daughter? My foggy brain struggled to catch up.
The baby was still cradled in my arms, red-faced, tiny fists waving, letting out a soft cry that tugged at something deep inside me.
I stared down at her, this perfect stranger, and a wave of protectiveness washed over me, uninvited and fierce. But… this couldn't be right. I wasn't a mother. I wasn't even pregnant anymore.
No, wait, I had been, just hours ago. Four weeks, that nurse had said. But this baby was full-term, not a speck of me.
"That's not me," I whispered, my voice cracking in that unfamiliar tone. The words hung in the air, weak and confused.
The nurse chuckled softly, patting my shoulder. "Oh, Ma'am, it's the anesthesia talking. You've been through hell. Just rest now."
I shook my head, or tried to, but the room spun. My heart raced. I lifted a hand; slender fingers, manicured nails, a gleaming wedding band catching the light. Not my hands. Not my ring. I'd never worn one. It was like standing on ice that suddenly cracked, I didn't know where to step next.
What the hell was happening? I remembered the rain, the headlights, the crush of metal on Fifth Avenue. I should be dead. But here I was, alive, breathing, in someone else's skin.
The baby fussed in my arms, and I rocked her instinctively, shushing her with a hum I didn't know I knew. "Shh, little one. It's okay."
The nurse beamed. "Have you thought of a name yet? We need to fill out the paperwork."
A name? My mind blanked, then latched onto something soft, timeless. "Cynthia," I murmured, the word feeling right on my tongue. "Her name's Cynthia."
"Beautiful choice, Mrs. Roth. Suits her perfectly."
Mrs. Roth again. I swallowed hard, As the drugs wore off, clarity came, but so did the fear.
"Wait… what's my name?" I asked, my voice small, desperate.
The nurse paused, Her eyebrows drew together in surprise. "Your name? Oh, sweetie, you really did take a hit with that flatline. It's Erica. Erica Roth. Don't worry, confusion is normal after something like that, your brain went without oxygen for a bit. It'll pass."
Erica Roth. The name echoed in my head, meaningless at first. But Roth… that rang a bell.. Panic clawed up my throat. "And… My husband? Where is he?"
"He's in London on business, but we called him right away. He'll be here soon, flying back as we speak. You just focus on resting and bonding with little Cynthia."
She left, leaving me alone with the baby and my racing thoughts. Bonding? I wasn't Erica. I was Riley Stevenson, art curator, single, freshly pregnant from a fling I barely remembered. The last thing I could remember was coming out from a convenience store, then the flashlight from a car. But somehow, I'd woken up here, in this body, this life. A soul swap? It sounded insane, like a bad sci-fi movie, but what else explained it?
I blinked hard, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill. I wasn't ready for this. For any of it. Cynthia quieted in my arms, her tiny hand wrapping around my finger, Erica's finger.
My gaze fell on a phone on the bedside table. Sleek, expensive. I unlocked it with the face ID. I grabbed it one-handed, careful not to disturb the baby, and swiped open. The home screen was a photo of a stunning woman, honey-blonde, smiling at a gala.. I remembered seeing this face online and in magazines, and that was when it dawned on me…..
Erica. That was her…. me now, my ex's wife. I scrolled through the photos app, my breath catching. Charity events, designer gowns that screamed old money, vacations in places I'd only dreamed of. Perfect smiles, but always alone or with strangers. No candid shots, no messy joy. Just polished perfection.
Instagram next: @EricaRothOfficial, thousands of followers. Posts of galas, fundraisers for the hospital, captions like "Grateful for another successful evening supporting children's health." Comments gushed admiration, but it felt hollow. How is this possible?
Texts were worse. The top thread: "Gerald." No heart emoji, no nickname. Just "Gerald." I tapped it open, scrolling back.
Him: "Deal closing tomorrow. Back in time?"
Her: "The baby's due any day. But handle your business."
Him: "Understood."
Cold as ice. No "I love you," no excitement about the birth. Earlier ones were the same, logistics about events, household stuff. Like business partners, not lovers. One from three days ago: Him: "I'll be back for the birth if the deal closes in time." Her: "Don't bother. I'm sure you have more important matters."
Ouch. This marriage was a shell. Why? I remembered a time of warmth, laughter on sunlit beaches, dreams of a shared future. But I had shattered it all, rejected love, and walked away….. Now, I stand here, uncertain of what comes next.
Guilt twisted in my chest. I'd stolen her life. Her body. Her child. Cynthia cooed softly, and I kissed her forehead, inhaling that new-baby scent. "I'm sorry," I whispered to the air, to Erica's ghost. "I don't know how this happened, but I'll take care of her. I promise."
I kept scrolling through the contacts, trying to piece together this life. Names I didn't recognize, society friends probably. Then I saw it: "Mirabel ❤️ (Sis)" with a recent string of messages.
Mirabel: "How are you feeling? Labor started yet?"
Erica: "Not yet. Any day now. I'm nervous, Mira."
Mirabel: "You'll be amazing, like always. I'm at the hospital for my shift. Will check on you if later. Love you so much, sis."
Erica: "Love you too. Don't know what I'd do without you."
Sister. Erica had a sister. The realization hit me like a wave. I had family now, Erica's family. People who would expect me to know them, to remember shared histories I'd never lived.
I scrolled further back in their conversation. The messages were frequent, daily even. Photos of the two of them at brunches, shopping trips, family dinners at what looked like an expensive estate. Mirabel was striking; sharp features, dark hair, always impeccably put together. The texts showed deep affection and intimacy.
Erica: "Gerald's working late again. Third night this week."
Mirabel: "Want me to come over? We can watch terrible reality TV and eat ice cream like old times."
Erica: "You're the best. Seriously."
Further back:
Erica: "Had another fight with Gerald. Well, not a fight. He was just… distant. Cold. Like I'm not even there."
Mirabel: "I hate seeing you like this. You deserve so much better."
Erica: "Sometimes I wonder if he'll ever get over her. His ex. I can feel her between us every single day."
Mirabel: "Forget her. You have me, you have the baby coming. That's what matters."
The conversation made my stomach turn. These weren't just sisters, they were best friends, confidantes. Erica told Mirabel everything. About her marriage, about Gerald's coldness, about feeling like a replacement for someone else.
About me.
A soft knock on the door made me jump. A different nurse poked her head in. "Mrs. Roth? Your sister just finished her shift. She heard about what happened and she's been waiting to see you. Should I send her in?"
My heart hammered. "Yes. Of course."
The door opened, and she walked in, the same nurse from earlier, from when I was still in my own body at the hospital. Mirabel.
She stood in the doorway for a moment, her hands gripping the frame. Her face was pale beneath her makeup, and something seemed off about her energy; too bright, too frantic.
"Erica!" She rushed over, her voice loud in the quiet room. "Oh my God, they told me you flatlined. Two whole minutes." Her hand trembled as she reached for mine. "I thought I lost you."
Her palm was clammy, cold and damp with sweat. I noticed her fingers twitching against mine, unable to hold still.
"I'm okay," I managed. "I'm here."
Mirabel sat on the edge of the bed but couldn't seem to settle, shifting her weight constantly. "When they called the code, I tried to come up, but they wouldn't let me in the Operating Room." She laughed, but it came out too high. "I've been going crazy waiting for news."
Her gaze darted around the room; to the window, to the door, never quite meeting my eyes for more than a second. Small beads of perspiration dotted her hairline.
"You look exhausted," I said carefully.
"Long shift. Really long shift." She wiped her palms on her scrubs. "Crazy night all around. The ER was slammed; accidents, emergencies." She cleared her throat. "There was this hit-and-run on Fifth Avenue earlier. Woman died on impact. Just… terrible."
The way she said it made my skin prickle. Too casual. Too forced.
Her eyes finally dropped to Cynthia. "She's beautiful. She looks just like you." Mirabel reached out to touch the baby's hand, but her fingers were shaking so badly she had to pull back.
"Have you heard from Gerald?" she asked abruptly.
"He's flying back from London."
Mirabel's jaw clenched visibly. "Of course." She stood suddenly, pacing to the window with her arms wrapped tightly around herself. "But I'm here now. You're not alone." She turned back, studying my face with unsettling intensity. "Are….. are you okay?"
My blood ran cold. "I'm…. I'm fine, or I will be." "Just exhausted."
"Maybe. Yeah, maybe that's it." She gnawed her lower lip, drawing blood without seeming to notice. "Did you ever get to meet her? That woman from the gallery opening?"
My heart stopped. "What?"
"Gerald's ex. You were going to meet her, remember? You wanted to understand what made her so special." Mirabel leaned forward. "Did you go before all this happened?"
"No," I whispered. "I never made it. I went into labor"
Something flashed across her face….. relief? "Probably for the best. The past should stay buried." She grabbed my hand, squeezing too tight. "That's what matters now. You have Cynthia. You have me."
But her eyes kept darting to the door like she expected someone to burst in.
She glanced at her watch. "I should go. Let you rest." She moved quickly toward the door, then paused. "Call me if you need anything. Day or night."
"I will."
"I'm glad you're okay," she said, her voice strained. "I don't know what I would have done if…" She trailed off, then left quickly, almost fleeing down the hallway.
I sat there, my mind racing. Something was very wrong with Mirabel. The trembling, the sweating, the nervous energy.
I didn't think too much about it. I had bigger fish to fry.
Hours blurred, nurses checking vitals, pain meds kicking in. I dozed fitfully, Cynthia in the bassinet beside me. But I couldn't escape the questions spinning in my head: How long could I pretend? What if someone noticed? And my husband… God, seeing him, how will I react? The thought made my stomach churn.
Footsteps approached the door. A deep voice, muffled but familiar, speaking to someone outside. "How is she? The baby?"
My pulse skyrocketed. That voice, I'd know it anywhere. The door creaked open, and there he stood, rumpled from travel, eyes shadowed with exhaustion. Gerald Roth. My ex. Her husband. The last person I expected, or wanted, to face like this.