Riley's POV
I couldn't sleep.
Dr. Morrison had come and gone last night, assuring us that Cynthia's fever was likely just a virus. Keep her hydrated, monitor her temperature, call if it gets worse. Standard stuff. She was sleeping peacefully now in her crib, her breathing soft and steady.
But I was wide awake.
I sat on the edge of the bed, Cynthia's soft breaths filling the quiet nursery next door. The morning light filtered through the curtains, painting stripes of gold across the floor. My fingers traced the edge of the bed, my mind stuck on Gerald's face last night, the way his eyes had locked onto me when I sang that lullaby. The way he'd looked like he'd seen a ghost.
And then he'd walked away.
I closed my eyes, and suddenly, I was back there.
******
Montauk. Five years ago.
The beach house smelled like salt and sunblock, the sound of waves crashing against the shore filling the air. We'd spent the day on the beach, swimming in the cold Atlantic, burning our shoulders despite the sunscreen.
Now we were tangled in sheets, my head on his bare chest, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my shoulder.
"Sing to me," he'd said.
I'd laughed. "I can't sing."
"Liar. I've heard you in the shower."
"That's different. That's a private shower singing. The acoustics make everyone sound good."
He'd tickled my ribs until I squealed. "Come on. Please? Just something."
So I'd sung. The lullaby my grandmother taught me when I was three. The words felt rusty on my tongue after so many years, but they came back.
"Dors, mon petit ange…"
Gerald had gone very still beneath me. When I looked up, his eyes were soft.
"What does it mean?" he'd whispered.
"Sleep, my little angel. The stars watch over you. Tomorrow brings new dreams."
"That's beautiful."
"My grandmother used to sing it every night. Even when I got too old for lullabies, she'd hum it while she cooked."
He'd pulled me closer, pressing a kiss to my hair. "Sing it again."
So I did. And again. Until the words became a bridge between us, something intimate and ours.
That night, wrapped in his arms with the ocean crashing outside, I'd felt completely safe. Like nothing bad could ever touch us.
I'd been so wrong.
The memory hit me like a physical blow. I pressed my hand over my mouth, trying to muffle the sob that wanted to escape.
God, we'd been so happy. So stupidly, blindly happy.
And I'd destroyed it.
I'd destroyed us.
******
My eyes snapped open, my breath coming in sharp gasps. The memory was so vivid, so real, it felt like I could still taste the salt in the air, still feel Gerald's hands on my skin.
But that was then.
And this was now.
******
Now here I was, living in his house, wearing another woman's body, singing the same lullaby to his daughter while he looked at me like I was breaking his heart all over again.
A soft knock on the nursery door made me jump.
"Mrs. Roth?" It was Paulette's gentle voice. "Are you alright? I heard… I thought I heard crying."
I wiped my face quickly. "I'm fine. Just tired."
"Would you like me to take over? You should rest."
"No." The word came out too sharp. I softened my tone. "No, thank you. I want to stay with her."
A pause. "Of course. Call me if you need anything."
Her footsteps faded down the hall.
I looked at Cynthia, her tiny chest rising and falling in the daylight. She looked so much like Gerald. The same dark hair. The same serious expression, even in sleep.
"Your daddy's losing his mind," I whispered to her. "And it's all my fault."
She didn't answer. Just kept breathing, trusting me completely to keep her safe.
The weight of that trust was crushing.
The next few days were torture.
Gerald avoided me completely. He left for the office before I woke up and came home after I'd gone to bed. When we did cross paths, he looked through me like I was furniture.
The mansion became a tomb. Beautiful and silent and suffocating.
I spent my time with Cynthia, feeding her, changing her, talking to her like she could understand. Paulette watched me with knowing eyes but never said anything.
Mrs. Beatrice tried to engage me in conversation about upcoming charity events. I made excuses about still recovering, needing more time.
Martha brought me meals I barely touched.
The loneliness was almost physical. A weight pressing down on my chest until I couldn't breathe.
I'd been alone before. When I rejected Gerald's proposal, I'd spent months alone. Years, really. But this was different. This was being surrounded by people and still feeling completely isolated.
Because nobody knew who I really was.
On the fourth night, I couldn't take it anymore. I needed something, anything, to distract me from the crushing silence.
I grabbed Erica's phone from the nightstand.
I'd been avoiding looking through it too much. It felt invasive, like reading someone's diary. But desperate times and all that.
I scrolled through her emails, most of it junk. Charity committee updates. Department store promotions. Appointment reminders from her stylist.
Then I saw it.
******
"You're cordially invited to tonight's exclusive gallery opening."
I opened it with trembling fingers.
The email was simple. Professional. An invitation to the Vanguard Gallery opening at 7 PM. "Come discover visions that challenge the soul."
No sender name. Just a QR code and an RSVP button.
I stared at it, confusion mixing with something cold in my stomach.
This was the invitation I'd received. The one that had pinged my phone that afternoon while I was having coffee with Mr. Powell.
But why did Erica have it too?
I scrolled down, looking for more information. Then I saw it. A draft email, never sent, dated the same day.
Dear R.S.,
I hope you don't mind the anonymous invitation. I wasn't sure you'd come if you knew who was asking.
My name is Erica Roth. You probably recognize the last name.
I'm the woman who married Gerald after you left him.
I know this is strange. Maybe even cruel. But I need to meet you. I need to understand what made you so special that five years later, he still can't let you go.
I'm not angry. I'm just tired. So tired of being compared to someone I've never met.
Please come to the gallery tomorrow. Just five minutes. That's all I'm asking.
Help me understand why I'll never be enough.
- E.R.
The phone slipped from my hands, clattering onto the bed.
Riley Stevenson.
Me.
Erica had sent that invitation. She'd been planning to meet me. To finally confront the person that haunted her marriage.
And I'd said yes. I'd been on my way there when that car hit me.
My vision blurred. The cruelty of it was unbearable. Two women, both destroyed by loving the same man. Both desperate for answers. Both dead before they could ever face each other.The night we both died.
My pulse roared in my ears. This wasn't just a coincidence. This wasn't just some random invitation. Erica had known about me. She'd known about my past with Gerald. She'd known I was the reason her marriage was a sham.
And she'd wanted to understand.
I scrambled off the bed, my hands shaking as I dug through Erica's closet, searching for her journal. I'd read it before, but I needed to see it again. Needed to know.
I found it where I had kept it, the leather cover worn from use. My fingers flipped through the pages until I found the entry from the day before Cynthia's birth.
Tomorrow, I'll meet her. R.S. The woman he loved. She accepted my invitation to the gallery opening. Maybe seeing her will explain why I was never enough. Why he looks through me like I'm glass. I don't blame her. She didn't know he'd marry me to forget her. But I'm so tired of being a placeholder, of sleeping alone, of watching him stay late to avoid me. Maybe tomorrow, I'll understand. Or maybe it'll just confirm what I've always known: I was never the one he wanted.
My breath came in sharp, painful gasps.
She'd known Gerald was still in love with me. She'd known she was second best. And she'd still stayed. She'd still tried to make it work.
For him.
For Cynthia.
And now I was here, living in her skin, raising her daughter, sleeping in her bed, while she was gone.
The guilt crushed me.
I took the phone again and scrolled back to the original invitation. That anonymous, sleek digital card.
Then I noticed something in the details I'd missed before. A small line of text at the bottom.
"This invitation has been sent to a curated list of recipients."
How many people had she invited? Was it just me? Or had she cast a wider net, hoping I'd show up without knowing who was behind it?
I clicked on the "Sent" folder, my heart pounding.
And there it was.
The final version of the invitation. Sent from a temporary email account. No name. No signature.
Sent to three addresses.
My old email. The gallery owner.
And one labeled simply: "Client - Vanguard Commission."
She'd hired the gallery to host the event. Created a fake opening just to get me there.
She'd orchestrated the whole thing.
My chest ached. The planning. The desperation. The hope that maybe, just maybe, meeting me would give her answers.
******
I spent the rest of the day in a daze.
Paulette took Cynthia for her afternoon walk in the garden, and I wandered the mansion like a ghost, my mind racing. Every room felt like a lie. Every piece of art on the walls, every expensive vase, every perfectly arranged flower, it all screamed Erica. And I was just an imposter, playing dress-up in her life.
I ended up in the solarium, one of the places Erica had loved. The one place that felt like her. I curled up on the window seat, staring out at the garden, the journal clutched in my hands.
I didn't know what to do.
I didn't know how to fix this.
*******
Gerald came home late.
I heard the front door open, his footsteps heavy on the marble floor. I didn't move. I didn't call out to him. I just sat there, frozen, as his shadow passed the solarium door.
He didn't come in.
He never did.
A few minutes later, I heard his study door close with a quiet click.
I waited until the house was silent again before slipping out of the solarium, my bare feet silent on the cold floor. I paused outside his study, my hand hovering over the doorknob.
I should knock.
I should talk to him.
I should tell him.
But I couldn't.
Because if I did, everything would change.
And I wasn't ready for that.
Not yet.