Eva's POV
I can't stop staring at my hands.
They're moving—picking up Lily's bottle, changing her blanket, checking her diaper—but they don't feel like mine. Too thin. Too pale. The nails are beautiful ovals painted soft pink. I've bitten my nails since I was ten years old. These hands have never been bitten.
Because these hands never belonged to me.
It's been three hours since I found the truth. Three hours of feeding Lily, rocking her, pretending everything is normal while my brain screams that nothing will ever be normal again.
I'm Eva Hart. But I'm wearing Celeste Thornfield's body like a Halloween outfit I can't take off.
Lily finally falls asleep in my arms. She's so tiny, so beautiful, with wisps of dark hair and a little button nose. Every time I look at her, something fierce and protective rises in my chest. It doesn't matter that she's not naturally mine. It doesn't matter that I woke up in this nightmare only hours ago.
She needs me. And right now, that's the only thing keeping me from losing my mind completely.
I place her carefully in the cot and creep back to the bathroom. I need to understand what's going. I need to see it again, to show to myself I'm not crazy.
The fluorescent lights buzz overhead as I grip the marble sink and look into the mirror.
Celeste Thornfield stares back.
She's gorgeous. The kind of beautiful that makes people turn their heads on the street. High cheeks. Perfect skin. Hair like honey and gold mixed together. Eyes the color of a winter sky—cold and faraway.
Nothing like my warm brown eyes. Nothing like the messy dark hair I could never tame. Nothing like the face I've seen in the mirror every day for twenty-nine years.
"Who are you?" I whisper to the stranger.
She doesn't answer. Just moves her lips the same way I do, fear written across her beautiful features.
I pinch my arm hard. The stranger winces. I feel the pain shoot through my nerves—her nerves—our nerves.
This is real. Somehow, impossible, this is real.
I died in Barcelona. I remember the truck, the crash, the darkness swallowing me whole. I remember thinking about my mom, about Dominic, about how I'd lost three years running from the only things that mattered.
But I didn't stay dead.
I came back. Just not in my own body.
My legs give out. I slide down to the cold tile floor, my back against the bathtub, and let myself cry. Really cry. Not the quiet tears from earlier, but ugly, gasping sobs that shake this stolen body.
Why? Why me? Why Celeste? Why Dominic's wife of all people?
Is this punishment? Did I do something so terrible that the universe chose to trap me in this nightmare? Make me watch the man I love live a life with someone else—except now I AM that someone else? "I'm sorry," I whisper to no one. "I'm so sorry, Mom. I'm sorry I didn't make it to you. I'm sorry I wasted so much time being scared."
But Mom is dead now. She died while I was bleeding out in Barcelona. I never got to say goodbye. Never got to tell her she was right about everything.
Life is too short to run from the people you love.
And now I'm trapped in the middle of the mess I made three years ago.
I pull myself together and stand up. Crying won't change anything. I need information. I need to understand who Celeste was, what her life was like, and why—why—I ended up in her body on the exact day she gave birth.
Back in the hospital room, I grab Celeste's phone off the floor where I dropped it. The screen is broken but still works. I start scrolling, looking for anything that might explain this impossible situation.
Her text messages are cold. Short. Nothing like the warm, chatty texts I used to send to friends.
Her mom: "Have the baby come yet? Remember what we talked about the press release."
Someone named Vanessa: "Congrats on the kid. I'm sure this changes everything for you and Dom. Call me when you're up for visitors."
An unknown number: "You promised you'd leave him. Did you really think I'd let you back out?"
I freeze. Read that last message again.
Leave him? Leave Dominic?
I scroll up through the discussion. The texts are deleted on Celeste's end, but whoever this person is kept sending them: "I can't believe you're still with him."
"You said you loved me."
"If you don't leave him, I'll tell him everything."
The last message was sent three days ago. Right before Celeste went into labor. Right before she died.
Right before I woke up in her body.
My heart pounds. Celeste was having an affair. She was going to leave Dominic. And someone was threatening her about it.
I keep digging through her phone. Her social media is perfect—filtered shots of fancy parties, designer clothes, fake smiles. No shots with Dominic. Not a single one. For a married couple, they might as well be strangers.
Her emails are worse. Bills for a secret place in Brooklyn. Receipts from a jewelry shop for a man's watch—purchased two months ago, definitely not for Dominic based on the style. Deleted drafts of messages that start with "I can't do this anymore."
Celeste wasn't happy. She was trapped in a marriage she didn't want, pregnant with a baby she definitely didn't plan for, having an affair with someone who was getting dangerous.
And then she died.
Except—did she just die? Or was it something else?
My hands shake as I google "Celeste Thornfield death." But nothing comes up. No news stories. No obituaries. Because to the rest of the world, Celeste didn't die. She's alive and well, holding her baby daughter in a hospital room.
But I know the truth. I felt her die. That moment when my heart stopped for forty-three seconds—that was Celeste's death. That was when her soul left this body.
And somehow, impossibly, mine took its place.
"Why?" I whisper, looking down at Lily sleeping peacefully in her cot. "Why did this happen?"
A soft knock at the door makes me jump. A nurse peeks in, smiling.
"Mrs. Thornfield? You have a visitor. He says he's your husband's father."
My blood runs cold. Dominic's father. A man I've never met. A man who will expect me to be Celeste, to act like Celeste, to know things only Celeste would know.
"I—I'm not really up for visitors," I start, but an older guy in an expensive suit walks in before I can finish.
He's tall, distinguished, with gray hair and sharp eyes that remind me instantly of Dominic. But there's something else in those eyes. Something calculating.
"Celeste," he says, his voice smooth. "I came as soon as I heard. A child. How wonderful."
He walks to the cot, looks down at Lily, and something flashes across his face. Satisfaction? Relief?
"She has the Thornfield eyes," he says. "No doubt about that."
The way he says it makes my skin crawl. Like he was worried. Like he needed proof.
He turns to me, and his look is sharp enough to cut. "You look different."
My breath catches. "I—I just gave birth. I'm tired."
"Hmm." He steps closer, studying my face. "No. It's not that. Something else. Your eyes. They're not as..." He pauses, looking for the word. "Empty. As they usually are."
Empty. He thought Celeste's eyes were empty.
"I nearly died," I say slowly. "Maybe that changes a person."
"Perhaps." But he doesn't look convinced. He pulls a chair close to my bed and sits down unwanted. "I need to speak with you, Celeste. About Dominic. About your marriage. About certain... arrangements that need to be kept for the sake of the Thornfield name."
Arrangements? My stomach twists.
"I'm really tired, Mr. Thornfield—"
"Marcus," he corrects, but it's not friendly. "And this can't wait. You see, I'm dying. Cancer. Six months, maybe less. And before I go, I need to ensure certain things are in order."
He leans forward, and his eyes bore into mine.
"Your marriage to my son was a business deal. Your family needed the Thornfield money. My son needed a decent wife to clean up his image after that disaster with his ex-girlfriend." He waves a hand dismissively. "Eva something-or-other. Doesn't matter. What counts is that you fulfill your end of the bargain. Produce a child. Play the perfect wife. Keep the press happy."
Each word is a knife to my chest. Business deal. Clean up his picture. After that disaster with his ex-girlfriend.
That ex-girlfriend was me. I was the disaster he needed to erase. "I—" My voice cracks. "I understand."
"Good." Marcus stands up, fixing his tie. "I'll let you rest. But Celeste?" He stops at the door. "Don't get any ideas about going. The prenuptial deal is ironclad. If you divorce my son, you get nothing. And your mother's medical bills?" He smiles, cold and sharp. "Well. Let's just say the Thornfield family has been very giving. It would be a shame if that kindness suddenly... stopped. "
He leaves before I can reply.
I sit there, frozen, as the pieces click into place.
Celeste was stuck. Blackmailed into a marriage she didn't want. Having an affair because she was desperate for something real. And when she tried to leave, someone threatened her.
Then she died during childbirth.
But what if it wasn't an accident?
The door opens again. I expect another nurse, another guest, another person expecting me to be someone I'm not.
Instead, it's a woman. Tall, beautiful, with dark hair and cold eyes. She's holding a huge bouquet of white roses.
"Celeste," she says, her smile not reaching her eyes. "Congratulations on the baby."
She sets the flowers on the table, but her gaze never leaves my face. She's studying me the same way Marcus did. Like she's looking for something.
"I'm Vanessa," she says. "Dominic's business partner. We've met before, of course. Many times. Though you usually can't stand to be in the same room as me." She smiles, but it's sharp. "You called me a buzzard once, at a charity gala. Said I was circling Dominic like prey."
My heart pounds. This is Vanessa. The woman who texted Celeste. The woman who said "this changes everything for you and Dom."
"I was probably hormonal," I say carefully.
"Probably." Vanessa picks up one of the white roses, moving it between her fingers. "These are white roses. Did you know they mean innocence? Purity?" Her eyes meet mine. "I thought they were fitting. For a new mother."
Something about the way she says it makes my blood run cold.
She drops the rose back in the bunch and walks to the door. But before she goes, she turns back, her expression unreadable.
"You should be more careful, Celeste," she says softly. "Childbirth is so scary. Anything can happen. Hearts stop. Blood pressure drops. Sometimes women just... don't make it."
She smiles.
"You're lucky you survived."
The door closes behind her, and I'm alone with Lily and the white roses and a terrible, dawning understanding.
Celeste didn't just die.
Someone killed her.