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."
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.