Riley's POV
I was coming down the staircase with Cynthia when I heard Gerald's voice.
He was in the hallway below, his phone pressed to his ear, his back to me.
Something about his posture made me freeze on the staircase, shoulders hunched, head bowed, like he was carrying a weight too heavy to bear.
"I'm going to miss her," he said, and even from here I could hear the crack in his voice.
"God, Kester, I'm going to miss the love of my life. Every single day for the rest of my life."
The words hit me like a physical blow.
The love of his life.
He was talking about me. About Riley. About the woman he knew was dead.
My hands tightened around Cynthia as tears burned behind my eyes. He still loved me. After five years. After marrying someone else. After everything.
He still loved me.
And I was standing right here, wearing another woman's face while he mourned the woman I used to be.
Gerald hung up the phone and stood there for a moment, completely still. Then he straightened his shoulders, smoothed his tie, and the softness in his face vanished, replaced by that cool, unreadable calm.
When he turned around, he saw me on the stairs.
We stared at each other across the distance, and I wondered if he could see it, the truth written all over Erica's face. The love and grief and desperate longing that I couldn't quite hide.
But he just nodded once, politely, distantly, and walked past me up the stairs.
I stood frozen on the staircase, clutching his daughter, while the man I loved disappeared down the hall.
Still mourning me.
Still loving me.
Never knowing I was right here.
The days after that phone call blurred together.
*******
Everyday felt the same, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't seem to get it right. Wake up. Feed Cynthia. Pretend to be someone I wasn't. Repeat.
It should have been simple. It wasn't.
Every morning, I'd stand in front of Erica's closet and stare at clothes, trying to figure out what she would have worn. Every interaction with the staff was a minefield, one wrong word, one forgotten detail, and the careful facade would crack.
But it was the little things that kept tripping me up. The things I didn't even think about until it was too late.
Like coffee.
Weeks went by in the mansion, and I'd finally worked up the courage to come down for breakfast instead of hiding in my room. Paulette had Cynthia for her morning routine, and I told myself I needed to start acting like the lady of the house. Whatever that meant.
The kitchen was warm and smelled like fresh bread. Cook; Peter, was kneading dough at the counter, flour dusting his forearms. He looked up when I entered and smiled.
"Good morning, Mrs. Roth! You're up early."
"Couldn't sleep," I said, which was true. I hadn't slept properly since waking up in this body.
"Well, you're just in time. Coffee's fresh, and I'm making cinnamon rolls."
My stomach actually growled. "That sounds amazing."
I moved to the coffee maker, The rich aroma made my mouth water. God, I'd missed good coffee. The hospital stuff had been terrible.
I poured myself a cup, the dark liquid steaming invitingly. Then, without thinking, I reached for the milk.
It was pure muscle memory. I'd been drinking my coffee the same way, my morning ritual for years. Just enough milk to turn it caramel-colored, two cubes of sugar to take the edge off the bitterness.
I was stirring in the coffee when I felt it. That prickle on the back of my neck that told me I was being watched.
I turned. Martha stood in the doorway, a laundry basket tucked against her hip, eyes fixed on my cup.
"Is everything alright?" I asked, my voice coming out higher than I meant it to.
"I…" Martha blinked, seeming to shake herself. "Yes, ma'am. I just… I've never seen you take your coffee like that before."
My heart stopped.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
"Like what?" I tried to sound casual, but my hand was shaking slightly around the spoon.
"With milk and sugar," Peter said from the counter, his kneading motion slowing. "You always take it black. Have for as long as I can remember."
Both women were looking at me now. Not suspicious, exactly. Just… confused. Like I'd done something completely out of character.
Which I had. Because I wasn't Erica.
Think, Riley. Think.
"Oh." I forced a laugh, setting down the spoon with care. "The medication, It's been affecting my taste buds. Everything tastes different lately. Bitter things especially."
The lie came so easily it scared me.
Peter's expression softened immediately. "Oh, you poor dear. That happened to my sister after her surgery. Took months for her taste to come back to normal."
"Exactly," I said, relief flooding through me. "The doctor said it's temporary."
Martha nodded, her expression still unreadable.
"Well, at least you're enjoying your coffee again, ma'am."
"Silver lining," I agreed, taking a sip to prove my point. The sweetness was perfect, exactly how I liked it.
Not how Erica took her coffee.
Martha left to continue her work, and Peter went back to his dough, but I could feel the shift in the air. That small crack in my performance. The first slip.
How many more would there be? How many tiny habits and preferences would give me away?
I took my coffee and a warm cinnamon roll for breakfast, settling at the small table by the window. From here, I could see the gardens perfectly manicured hedges, rose bushes beginning to bloom, and a stone pathway that went through it all.
Erica's world. Beautiful and lonely.
"Mrs. Roth?"
I turned to find Mrs. Beatrice standing in the doorway, tablet in hand and posture precise as always.
"Yes?"
"I was reviewing your calendar," she said. "You have the Children's Hospital benefit meeting on Thursday, the museum gala committee call on Friday, and Mrs. Pemberton's luncheon next week."
My pulse spiked. A list of social traps waiting to expose me. People who'd known Erica, her mannerisms, her voice, her memories.
"Could we… postpone some of those?" I asked carefully. "I'm still recovering, and Cynthia's needs are…."
"Of course," she interrupted kindly. "I'll send your regrets. Though Mrs. Brooke was quite insistent. She said she hasn't seen you in months."
Because Erica had been pregnant and probably avoiding social events. But I couldn't keep using that excuse forever.
"Maybe lunch with Mrs. Brooke," I said. "But not until next month. I need more time."
"I'll let her know." Mrs. Beatrice made a note on her tablet. "Oh, and Mr. Roth called. He'll be home for dinner tonight."
My heart did a stupid little flip. "He will?"
"Yes, ma'am. He specifically asked Peter to prepare herb-roasted chicken."
Gerald was finally going to have dinner with me. After weeks of avoiding me, of staying late at the office, he was actually coming home.
Why? What has changed?
"That's… that's wonderful," I managed.
Mrs. Beatrice smiled. "It'll be nice to have both of you at the table. It's been too long."
After she left, I sat with my coffee and tried to calm my racing thoughts. Dinner with Gerald. Conversation. The two of us sitting across from each other, pretending to be husband and wife.
I wasn't ready. I'd never be ready.
At six-thirty, I heard the front door open. Male voices; Gerald and James, probably discussing something about the car. Then footsteps, growing closer.
I stood in the hallway, my hands clasped to keep them from shaking, as Gerald came closer.
He stopped when he saw me.
For a moment, we just stared at each other. He looked tired, his tie loosened, his jacket slung over one arm.
"Hi," I said stupidly.
"Hi." His voice was carefully neutral. "How are you feeling?"
"Better. Stronger." I gestured vaguely at myself. "The incision's healing well."
"Good. That's good."
The awkwardness was suffocating. This man had once known every inch of me. He made me laugh until my sides hurt. He proposed to me on a beach at sunset.
Now we couldn't even manage small talk.
"Dinner should be ready soon," I said.
"I'll change." He brushed past me, the scent of his cologne lingering, a sharp, clean echo of another life. I closed my eyes briefly, steadying myself against the wall.
Pull it together, Riley.
Twenty minutes later, we sat across from each other at the massive dining table. The candles flickered, the china gleamed, and the silence between us hummed louder than the ticking clock.
The chicken was perfect. The roasted vegetables were delicious. Everything tasted delicious.
"How's Cynthia?" Gerald asked, cutting his chicken with precise movements.
"She's wonderful," I said softly. "She smiled today. Maybe it's just gas, but… it felt real."
He looked up briefly. "I'd like to see that."
"You could," I said before I could stop myself. "If you came home earlier. If you spent time with her."
His jaw tightened. "I have responsibilities."
"So does she. She's your daughter."
"I'm aware."
The silence that followed was awkward.
I took a sip of water, trying to swallow the lump in my throat. This was pointless. He didn't want to be here. Didn't want to talk to me or see Cynthia or pretend we were a family.
"I should check on her," I said, starting to stand.
"Finish your dinner."
It wasn't a request. I sat back down, hands trembling on my lap.
Gerald set down his fork, his eyes finally meeting mine. After a long pause, he said quietly, "The staff says you've been… different."
My blood turned to ice. "Different how?"
"Little things. The way you speak to them. The things you ask about." His eyes met mine, sharp, assessing. "Martha said you forgot her name at first."
"The medication…."
"The medication," I said quickly. "It's been…."
"….affecting your memory. Yes, I've heard." His tone was unreadable. "But medication doesn't change personality, does it?"
I couldn't breathe. Was he starting to suspect something?
"Is that a problem?" "Nearly dying changes people," I said quietly. "Makes you realize what matters."
His gaze lingered, searching, and for one awful second, I thought he saw me.
Then he pushed back his chair. "Or maybe it just makes them better liars."
He left before I could respond.
I sat alone at the table, surrounded by flickering candlelight and uneaten food, wondering how long I could keep this up before everything fell apart.
All of a sudden, Cynthia started crying.
I fled toward the sound, grateful for the excuse.
But as I lifted my daughter from her crib and held her close, I couldn't shake the memory of Gerald's eyes. The suspicion lurking there.
But even as I lifted her from the crib, cradling her against my chest, Gerald's words echoed in my mind.
Better liars.
I need to be more careful.
*******
The next morning, I went into the kitchen half-awake, Cynthia's 4 AM feeding still weighing on my exhausted brain. I went straight for the coffee maker on autopilot, poured a cup, and reached for the milk.
The kitchen was quiet. Too quiet.
I turned around, milk bottle in hand, and froze.
Gerald stood in the doorway.
He'd stopped mid-step, one hand still on the doorframe, his eyes locked on my coffee cup. On the milk I was pouring. On the sugar bowl sitting right next to it.
Our eyes met across the kitchen.
And in that split second, the world went still. His expression shifted; confusion, recognition, something dangerously close to hope.
Neither of us moved. Neither of us spoke.
The milk kept pouring, overflowing the cup, spilling across the counter in a white river.