Riley's POV
I barely made it to the nursery before my hands started shaking.
Cynthia's cries pierced through the house, sharp and desperate. Not her normal fussing. This was different. Wrong.
I pushed through the door, my heart hammering against my ribs. Paulette was already there, rocking her, her face tight with worry.
"She won't stop," Paulette said, her usual calm cracking at the edges. "I've tried everything. Bottle, diaper, burping. Nothing's working."
I reached for Cynthia without thinking. The second she was in my arms, I felt it. Heat. Too much heat radiating through her tiny onesie.
"She's burning up." My voice came out strangled.
I pressed my lips to her forehead. The old-fashioned way my grandmother used to check my temperature. Cynthia's skin was like fire against my mouth.
"Oh God. Paulette, get the thermometer. Now."
She rushed to the changing table while I cradled Cynthia closer, trying to keep my panic from leaking into my touch. The baby's face was flushed, her little fists waving weakly.
"Shh, sweet girl. I've got you. Mama's here."
Mama. The word slipped out so naturally it scared me.
Paulette came back with the thermometer. I adjusted Cynthia, holding her still while we took her temperature. The seconds felt like hours.
Beep.
102.3°F.
"That's too high," I whispered. "For a baby this young, that's way too high."
Paulette's eyes widened. "Should I call Dr. Morrison?"
"Yes. And wake Gerald. He needs to know."
"But ma'am, Mr. Roth doesn't like to be disturbed when he's…."
"I don't care what he likes." The words came out sharper than I intended. "His daughter has a fever. Get him. Now."
Paulette hesitated only a second before hurrying out.
I was alone with Cynthia. Just me and this tiny, burning body that depended on me completely.
Fear clawed at my throat. What if something was seriously wrong? What if I couldn't help her? I wasn't really her mother. I was just a stranger wearing her mother's face.
But my body didn't care about logic. Every cell in me screamed to protect this child.
I moved to the rocking chair by the window and sat down carefully. Cynthia's cries had turned to weak whimpers. That scared me even more than the screaming.
"Hey, baby girl," I murmured, brushing damp hair from her forehead. "You're okay. You're going to be okay."
I didn't know if I was lying.
My mind raced through everything I knew about infant fevers. Which wasn't much. I'd never wanted kids. Never paid attention to the mommy blogs or parenting books. And now here I was, responsible for a life completely out of my depth.
Think, Riley. Think.
I started humming without planning to. An old French lullaby my grandmother used to sing. The melody came back like muscle memory, flowing through me in soft, gentle notes.
"Dors, mon petit ange…"
Cynthia's whimpering quieted slightly. Her eyes, glassy with fever, focused on my face.
"That's it," I whispered. "Listen to Mama. You're safe. I promise you're safe."
I rocked gently, the chair creaking in rhythm with my humming. Outside, rain started to fall, soft against the windows. The sound mixed with my voice, creating a cocoon of calm in the middle of my terror.
Minutes passed. Maybe five. Maybe twenty. Time felt strange.
Cynthia's breathing evened out slightly. Her body relaxed against mine, still hot but no longer rigid with distress.
"Good girl," I breathed. "Such a good, brave girl."
That fierce protectiveness surged through me again, stronger this time. This child. This perfect, innocent child who'd been born into such a mess. She deserved better than a father who couldn't look at her and a mother who was literally someone else.
But she had me now. Whoever I was. Whatever I'd become.
And I'd die before I let anything happen to her.
I was so focused on Cynthia that I didn't hear the footsteps.
Didn't sense the presence in the doorway.
I just kept humming, kept rocking, kept whispering promises in a mix of English and French.
"Tu es en sécurité. Mama's here. Always here."
Then I felt it. That prickle on the back of my neck.
Someone was watching.
I looked up.
Gerald stood in the doorway.
His shirt was rumpled, hair messy like he'd been running his hands through it. His eyes were locked on me. On us. On the way I held his daughter and sang to her in a language his wife supposedly didn't know.
The air left my lungs.
How long had he been standing there? How much had he heard?
Our eyes met across the dimly lit nursery, and I saw it all on his face. Confusion. Recognition. Something raw and wounded that made my chest ache.
He looked at me like he was seeing a ghost.
"Gerald," I started, my voice barely above a whisper.
He didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stood there frozen, his hand gripping the doorframe so tightly his knuckles had gone white.
Cynthia stirred in my arms, letting out a soft whimper. The sound seemed to break whatever spell held him.
"She has a fever," I said quickly. "102.3. Paulette called Dr. Morrison."
Gerald blinked. Cleared his throat. "How high?"
"Too high. For a baby this young, any fever is serious, but this…."
"I know." His voice was rough, scraped raw. "I run a hospital, remember?"
Right. Of course he knew.
He stepped into the room slowly, like approaching a wild animal. His eyes never left my face.
"What were you singing?"
My heart stopped. "What?"
"That song." He moved closer. "The one you were humming. What was it?"
I swallowed hard. Trapped. "Just… a lullaby. Something that came to me."
"In French."
It wasn't a question.
"I…" The lie died on my tongue. I was too tired for this. Too scared. "I don't know. Maybe something I heard somewhere. The fever, I was just trying to calm her down, and it just… came out."
Gerald stopped right in front of the rocking chair. Close enough that I could smell his cologne. Close enough to see the exhaustion carved into his face.
Close enough to see the hope.
God, the hope in his eyes was devastating.
"You've never spoken French," he said quietly. "In five years of marriage. You've never said a single word in French."
Because Erica didn't speak French. But Riley did.
I looked down at Cynthia, my throat tight. "I just told you, it just came out."
His jaw tightened. For a second, I thought he'd finally seen me; the real me. But then his expression shuttered, like a door slamming closed. He turned away, his voice clipped.
"Let me know when the doctor gets here."
The door clicked shut behind him.
I exhaled shakily, pressing my forehead against Cynthia's. He recognized the lullaby. He knew it wasn't Erica's.
Dr. Morrison arrived within the hour.
She was brisk and efficient, her stethoscope cold against Cynthia's chest as she listened to her breathing. "Just a virus," she said finally, packing up her bag. "Alternate Tylenol and Motrin. Keep her hydrated. She'll be fine in a day or two."
I nodded, relief flooding through me. "Thank you."
She hesitated at the door, her gaze flickering over me. "You're doing a good job, Mrs. Roth. She's lucky to have you."
The words hit me like a punch. She's lucky to have you.
fraud
But was she? I wasn't her real mother. I was a ghost in Erica's skin.
After the doctor left, I sat in the rocking chair, Cynthia curled against my chest. Her fever had broken, her breathing even and deep. I brushed my fingers through her soft hair, my mind racing.
Gerald had heard me sing. He'd recognized it. And he'd walked away.
Because he couldn't handle the truth.
Because the truth was that I wasn't Erica.
And if he ever found out, everything would shatter.
The next morning, the house was quiet.
Gerald had already left for the office by the time I woke up, Cynthia still sleeping peacefully in her crib. I sat on the edge of the bed, my hands trembling.
Last night had changed something. Not between Gerald and me, he was still distant, still closed off, but inside me. I wasn't just pretending anymore. I wasn't just playing a role.
I was feeling.
And that terrified me more than anything.
Because the more I let myself care, the harder it would be when this all fell apart.
And it would fall apart. It had to.
I just didn't know if I'd survive the wreckage.