Riley's POV
The world explodes into white light.
That's the first thing I remembered, not the screech of tires or the blare of a horn, but the blinding, unforgiving brightness of headlights cutting through rain and darkness. For a heartbeat, maybe less, I'm suspended in that light like an insect caught in amber.
Then the car hits me.
I felt a sharp, crushing hit as the metal slammed into me. My body folded, bones breaking, air ripped from my lungs. For a moment, I floated, then I slammed onto the asphalt, pain exploding all over.
Blood filled my mouth, warm and metallic. The world spun around me. Rain mixed with tears I didn't even realize I was crying. My last thought wasn't about my job at the gallery or the life I'd built. It was him, Gerald, the one I had let go. "Gerald," I whispered, as the darkness closed in.
Somewhere across Manhattan, in the sterile brightness of an operating room at Roth Memorial Hospital, a woman screams.
No…. not a woman. A baby. A newborn baby, fresh from the womb, wailing into existence with lungs that work, with life pumping through tiny veins.
But the mother is silent.
"She's flatlining!" someone shouts.
"Get the crash cart!"
"Come on, Stay with us."
The monitors flatline with a sound like the end of the world; a single, sustained note that drowns out everything else. Hands move with practiced urgency, pressing, pumping, shocking. Numbers are called out. Medications are administered. Time stretches and compresses in that liminal space between life and death.
Two minutes.
That's how long the woman is gone. One hundred and twenty seconds of nothingness, of absence, of a heart that refuses to beat.
And somewhere in that void, something shifts. Something impossible.
Two souls brush past each other in the darkness, one leaving, one arriving, one desperate to stay, the other ready to let go.
Then, a miracle.
The monitors beep. Once. Twice. A rhythm establishes itself, weak but steady.
"We've got her back!"
But the eyes that flutter open beneath the surgical lights aren't the same eyes that closed. The soul inhabiting that body isn't the woman who flatlined on the table.
And nobody knows.
Hours earlier…..
It was a balmy October afternoon, around 8 AM, an anonymous invite pinged my email. "You're cordially invited to tonight's exclusive gallery opening at the Vanguard Gallery. 7 PM. Come discover visions that challenge the soul." No sender name, just a sleek digital card with a QR code.
I got invites like this all the time, but this one intrigued me, Vanguard was cutting-edge, and I hadn't heard about this event. Perfect networking opportunity. I'd wrap up my client meeting and head straight there.
At twenty eight and an art curator at one of Manhattan's top galleries, with a thriving career and financial security that let me afford a cozy apartment in the city, designer shoes, and weekends lost in paintings that spoke to my soul. No husband, no kids, no complications. I had it all figured out, or so I told myself. That was the plan anyway.
By 5 PM, I was at my favorite coffee shop near the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the one with the exposed brick walls and baristas who knew my order by heart: a grande latte with extra milk and two cubes of sugar, because who wants that bitter edge when you can drown it in milk? I sipped it slowly, savoring the warmth as it chased away the chill from the streets outside.
My client, Mr. Powell, a wealthy collector with a penchant for modern abstracts, sat across from me, flipping through my portfolio on his tablet. "This piece by Elena Vasquez," he said, pointing to a vibrant swirl of colors, "it could be the centerpiece for my Hamptons estate. What's the asking price?"
I leaned forward, my black hair falling over one shoulder, and quoted a figure that made his eyebrows rise.
"It's a steal at that, trust me.
"Her work's appreciating faster than tech stocks."
We laughed, the deal inching closer. I felt on top of the world, my wit sharp, my confidence unshakeable. But beneath it all, there was that nagging ache, the one I masked with humor and late nights at the gallery. The one that whispered my ex's name in quiet moments.
Then it hit me. A wave of dizziness, like the room spun on a carnival ride. My latte slipped from my fingers, splashing across the table.
"Riley? You okay?"
Powell's voice sounded distant, muffled. My vision blurred, knees buckled. I remember thinking, Not now, not in front of a client. But the blackness pulled me under anyway.
I woke to beeping machines and sterile white walls. An IV dripped into my arm, and a nurse hovered, young, strikingly beautiful, with sharp features and an intense gaze.
Her name tag read "Mirabel Vanderlyn." She smiled.
"Ms. Stevenson? You're at Roth Memorial Hospital," she said, her voice smooth but edged.
"You fainted at the coffee shop. Your client brought you in."
I sat up, head throbbing. "What happened?"
Mirabel checked my chart, her fingers lingering a beat too long.
"Dehydration, low blood sugar… and congratulations. You're about four weeks pregnant."
Pregnant?
The word slammed into me like the car would later. Me, who never wanted kids, who prized my freedom above all?
"That's impossible. I can't be."
Her lips curved oddly, almost amused.
"Tests don't lie. We'll monitor you a bit longer." She adjusted my IV, her touch lingering, and for a split second, I felt… watched. Hunted. But I shook it off, hospitals do that to people.
As she stepped away, I heard footsteps outside the curtain. Another nurse entered, chatting about a shift change. Mirabel hesitated, her hand twitching toward a syringe on the tray, then pulled back with a tight smile.
"I'll be right back," she said, slipping out.
Panic set in. Pregnant? I couldn't stay.
"I want to be discharged," I insisted when the doctor came.
They protested more tests, but I signed the forms, heart racing. By 10 PM. As I was stepping out a pregnant woman was rushed in, clearly in labor. We brushed against each other for a moment, and I moved out of the way.
Stepping out into the cooling evening air, I felt better already. The rain had started, light at first, but building to a downpour as I decided to walk home. Taxis were scarce, and the fresh air cleared my head.
Then it hit me, the gallery opening. The invite. It was supposed to start at 7 PM, probably wrapped up hours ago. I'd missed it entirely, trapped here processing this bombshell. Disappointment stung; who'd sent that anonymous invite? Opportunities like that don't come every day.
After I stepped out of a convenience store with a bottle of water, chugging it like a pro. As if on cue, my phone buzzed in my pocket. Mom's text:
"When are you finally going to settle down…"
I snorted, typing back: "Mom, I'm thriving. Husbands are overrated."
But the words blurred with regret. Thriving? Sure, financially. My bank account was healthy, my career soaring. I'd curated shows that made headlines, rubbed elbows with artists who'd change the world.
But at night, alone in my bed, I thought of my ex. Five years ago, he'd gotten down on one knee, ring glinting in the sunset. "Marry me, Riley. We can have it all." And I'd frozen. Fear choked me, fear of losing myself, of vulnerability, of turning into my parents with their endless arguments.
"I don't love you enough," I'd said, the lie tasting like ash.
He shattered right there, eyes dimming. I walked away, convinced I was saving us both. He married someone else within three months, the perfect socialite. I heard through mutual friends, and saw pictures of them online. It stung, but I buried it deep.
Now, in the rain, that old wound throbbed. Maybe Mom was right. Maybe….
Headlights. Screech. Impact.
Back to the agony.
But wait….. this pain was different.
Not the sharp crush of bones, but a deep, ripping torment in my abdomen, like my body was being torn open from the inside. I screamed, or someone did. Voices overlapped:
"The baby's out! She's stable! Vitals are stable!"
A tiny wail pierced the chaos. Then, alarms blared.
"Flatline! Clear!"
Electricity jolted through me, arching my back. Darkness again, colder this time.
Two minutes?
An eternity. My soul hovered, weightless, brushing against another presence, faint, resigned, slipping away. Take it, a whisper seemed to say. Live.
Beep. Beep. "We have a rhythm! She's back!"
I gasped, the air rushing into my lungs felt strange, too light, too fragile. There was pain, still there, but softened by whatever drugs they'd given me. When my eyes finally fluttered open, harsh white lights burned above me, and a blur of masked faces leaned in close.
"Mrs. Roth? Can you hear us? You flatlined for two minutes, but you're stable now."
Mrs. Roth? I tried to speak, But my voice came out husky, my accent thicker than It normally was, not mine. A nurse placed a bundled newborn in my arms.
"Your daughter,. She's perfect."
Just then I caught my reflection in the nearby window: honey-blonde hair matted with sweat, sharp cheekbones, wide eyes. Not my average features, not my black hair.
Who the hell was staring back at me?