"Vivienne? Are you okay?"
A strange face swims into my field of vision.
Oh. Right. The doctor. She's kneeling in front of me.
Leaning back in a subtle bid to gain distance, my mind replays her words. "I'm okay."
A bright light flashes, and I blink again with a soft curse. Wasn't expecting that.
"Pupils are responsive, that's good. How's your vision? You seem to be doing better."
"I am, but—"
"You're a little pale," she continues, not giving me a chance to get a word in. "Since you're doing better, I suggest taking a walk in the garden. A little sunlight will do you wonders. How's your stomach?"
"Fine, but—"
"Head?"
"F—"
"Good," she declares, standing up. "Next time, take less sleeping pills. You know your husband hates it when you pull this kind of attention-grabbing bullshit."
Wait a second. Rewind. What?
Husband?
Sleeping pills?
"I think you have the wrong—"
Ignoring me, which seems to be her specialty, she glances at her watch. "I need to get back to my kid. Try not to kill yourself before the weekend, okay?"
Wow. Cold.
She jabs a finger at my face, her eyes narrow. "I'm serious. Don't try any of your bullshit. The next time Dad calls me to clean up your mess, I'm going to let you die of your own stupid choices. I didn't go to medical school to play doctor to my spoiled little sister for the rest of my life."
I hold up my hands. "Wait a second, I don't—"
But she's gone, striding across the room and out the door in a millisecond. How the hell does she move so fast?
My head spins as Bobby the Intern pokes his head back in. At least, I assume it's him.
"Mrs. Marshall, Dr. Graham said a shower would help clear your head. Would you like me to get it started?"
I stare at Bobby for a few beats too long. "What did you just call me?"
"Ah, Mrs. Marshall?" He's a quivering mess. Younger than me. For an intern, he doesn't even look like he's eighteen. Maybe I'm wrong.
He's a little too scrawny, with freckles across his nose and down-turned brown eyes. For some reason, he reminds me of a squirrel. Or a mouse. Some sort of furry little rodent with a healthy fear of predators, anyway.
I wonder why I feel that way, but brush the thought aside. That's the least of my concerns. "My name is Vivienne Wells."
His brow creases, and his eyes dart everywhere. "Yes, madam. I know your name."
"Then why are you calling me—"
"Wells!" the doctor's voice shouts, sounding far away. "Bring this medicine to the Madame!"
"Yes, Dr. Graham!" he squeaks, giving a haphazard bow in my direction before rushing out of the room.
An unsettled feeling curdles in my stomach. A mirror catches my eye, and I sit up a little straighter.
Black hair. Blue eyes. I stand up; the person in the mirror does, too. Wave my left hand; she does the same.
"What the hell is this?"
Dashing across the room, I lean over the vanity to stare at my reflection.
Whose face is this?!
My fingers trace the unfamiliar contours of my face. High cheekbones, a delicate nose, full lips. Slender, amorous eyes tilting up like a cat, in blue so bright it rivals a clear summer sky. A healthy blush colors my face. Beautiful.
But it's not me. Not the face I've known for twenty-five years.
I step back, taking in my entire reflection. Long, lean limbs. Curves in all the right places, the kind you see on models in magazines, courtesy of intense diets and plastic surgeries.
This body's never known the ravages of chemotherapy or the weakness of terminal illness.
"What. The. Fuck?"
Now that I'm paying attention, my voice is different, too. Smoother, more refined, with an accent I've never had in my life. Like I should be sipping champagne at a charity gala, not freaking out in a stranger's bedroom.
Silky black hair falls past my shoulders in lazy, fuck-me waves. Not a wig.
No more sickly pallor. This skin is flawless, porcelain-like.
My gaze drifts down to the oversized t-shirt I'm wearing. Plain white cotton, soft and worn. It's the only thing that feels familiar, reminiscent of what I'd wear to bed in my old life. Everything else is alien.
I lift the hem, revealing toned legs and a flat stomach. No scars from surgery. No bruising from Lovenox injections.
This body's never known pain or illness.
At least, not the terminal kind.
"Mrs. Marshall?"
I jump at the timid voice, dropping the hem of my shirt. Bobby the Intern—or whatever his name is—stands in the doorway, a glass of water and some pills on a silver tray.
"Your medicine, ma'am."
Ah, right. Whatever the woman was yelling about. Not just any woman, though. 'My' sister… whoever I am, I have a family here.
My heart constricts as I think of my parents, and I eye the pills warily. I take a lot of medicine, because I'm sick. 'This' body? It doesn't seem sick. Why are there so many pills?
"What are they?"
He blinks, confused. "Your usual morning vitamins and supplements, Mrs. Marshall. As prescribed by Dr. Graham."
Dr. Graham. Right. That's her name.
The woman who accused me of attention-seeking and taking sleeping pills.
"Right," I mutter. "Just leave them over there."
He does as instructed, then hovers uncertainly. "Will there be anything else? Your shower…?"
I shake my head, and he scurries away like a frightened animal. What kind of person am I in this world, who inspires such fear?
Alone again, I return to the mirror. Blue eyes stare back at me, filled with confusion and a hint of fear. Foreign eyes. Nothing like mine.
"Vivienne Marshall," I whisper, testing the name on my tongue. It feels wrong, like trying on someone else's skin.
My gaze drifts to the opulent room around me. Silk curtains, antique furniture, priceless (maybe?) art on the walls. This isn't just wealth; it's old money, generations of it.
A glint of gold catches my eye; there's a set of rings on the nightstand. How did I miss those? The engagement ring has a diamond I could sell and pay off my old medical bills ten times over. The wedding band is slender and simple.
All gold, of course.
Mrs. Marshall. I'm married. To who? And where is he?
I pace the room, my bare feet sinking into plush carpet. This has to be a dream. Some kind of vivid hallucination brought on by the cocktail of drugs they pumped into me.
But it feels too real. The cool air on my skin, the soft cotton of the t-shirt, the lingering scent of expensive perfume—which doesn't even make me sick. Not a hint of nausea, despite supposedly overdosing on sleeping pills.
If this is real, then what happened to me?
Silly question. I died. I remember that vividly.
A wave of nausea hits me then, and I stumble to the en-suite bathroom. It's bigger than my old apartment, all white marble and gold fixtures. I retch into the toilet, bringing up nothing but bile.
When the nausea passes, I slump against the cool tile wall. Tears prick at my eyes, a lump forming in my throat.
"Mom," I whisper. "Dad. Where are you?"
But they're not here.
Maybe I can find them? But I don't even know where I am. Is this Earth? It looks like Earth. It smells like Earth. But my body isn't mine.
A sob escapes me, echoing off the bathroom walls. I clamp a hand over my mouth, muffling the sound. I can't explain why, but something tells me showing weakness here is dangerous.
There's no clock in the bathroom, so I have no idea how long I sit there, quietly hiccupping into my hand as the tears flow.
It takes a while, but I finally force myself to stand, my legs shaky after spending all my adrenaline on a soul-shattering crying jag.
The woman in the mirror looks lost, vulnerable. I can't be her. Not if I want to survive whatever this is. Something in my brain whispers life is dangerous in this mess of opulence.
Until I know more, I need to trust it.
Taking a deep breath, I school my features into a mask of cool indifference. It's surprisingly easy with this new face.
"You are Vivienne Marshall," I tell my reflection. "Whoever she is, whatever she is, it's who you need to be now."
The woman in the mirror nods, her blue eyes hardening with resolve.
I head back to the bedroom. The pills on the nightstand mock me, a reminder of how little I know about this life I've stumbled into. Who prescribed them? What are they really for? Can I trust anyone here?
They didn't even have the decency to give me the bottles. Just naked pills.
The doctor—my supposed sister—clearly has no love for me. The intern is terrified. And my absent husband... A chill runs down my spine. Why does this feel so familiar?
Vivienne Marshall.
It still feels foreign and weird, but there's a little tingle in my brain, trying to tell me something.
Vivienne Marshall.
My name. This body's name.
Which begs the question—who was in this body before?