Chapter Five

AMELIA

It was nighttime.  

I could tell, even without opening my eyes, by the hushed silence and the chirping of insects somewhere far away.  

"Please let this all have been a dream," I prayed silently to whoever was up there listening.  

All I wanted was for all that had happened in the last few days to be a trance I had been having while in a coma.  

But when I opened my eyes, I was still in the same hospital room with the beeping machines, the adjustable bed, and the white walls.  

The thought that I was back to my old self had me reaching with shaky hands for the metal tray at my bedside. Quickly, I poured away the contents, flipped it over, and studied my reflection.  

My heart sank.  

It was still the same vivid red hair, pretty freckled face, and smooth skin staring back at me.  

I was still trapped in the body of Emma Mitchell.  

Someone began to wheeze, and I realized an instant later that it was me.  

The panic had started to take over. It was difficult to draw in a breath.  

I suddenly felt that if I kept lying there, staring at the blank white walls, I would go mad. The walls seemed to be closing in on me.  

Thank goodness Alexander was not in the room. I wouldn't have known how to deal with him now. If I had had to look at his handsome, jeering face, I would probably have lost it.  

Fresh air. Yes.  

That was what I needed to clear my head.  

I swung my legs out of bed and felt a tug and a sharp, little pain at the back of my hand.  

I was hooked up to an IV.  

Impatiently, I pulled out the needle.  

I was hurrying to the door when it opened.  

A tall, fair nurse gave me an exclamation. Her light blue eyes widened.  

"Mrs. Pierce!" she gasped, quickly dropping the tray and glass of water she had brought and reaching for me.  

I shrank back.  

"What are you doing out of bed at this time? It's past 2 a.m.! If you had wanted something, you could have just pressed the button by the bed." She pointed at the little red button. "I was just bringing you water—"  

"I don't want anything," I interrupted.  

"Oh. Couldn't sleep?" she asked kindly. "I understand. I could ask the doctor if I could bring you a little something to help you sleep."  

"I don't want anything!" I snapped, resisting the urge to stamp my foot like an angry child.  

I knew everyone was trying to help—maybe with the exception of Alexander, who hated my, well, Emma's, guts—but I just wished they would all leave me alone to figure this craziness out.  

"I wanted to go out to get some fresh air," I explained.  

The nurse looked surprised. She had gently held my arm, trying to lead me to the bed. I refused to move. I brushed her hand away.  

"But you are not yet fit to go out on your own," she protested.  

"I can talk and move, can't I? Besides, I didn't say I was going home, just outside. There is nothing wrong with someone who woke up from a coma wanting to get some air, is there? Or am I a prisoner here?"  

"Of course you aren't, but you're still under observation. I would probably lose my job if I let you walk out that door."  

She glanced at the curtain, which someone had drawn fully closed. Her lips thinned, and she looked a little angry, though her anger seemed directed at someone else, not me.  

"There are reporters crawling all over the hospital."  

"Reporters?"  

"Yes. One or two of them even tried to pretend they had come to visit patients here just to get an idea of where exactly you are."  

She heaved a deep sigh.  

"The lengths these people will go to is beyond me. The hospital's security has been working overtime ever since you regained consciousness. If these reporters spotted you, Mrs. Emma, they wouldn't even care that you're recovering. They'll take pictures of you, and... I don't need to paint the whole picture. I'm sure that as popular as you are, you have had your share of trying to handle annoying reporters."  

"But why?" I asked, forgetting for a bit my need to go outside. "Why is the media so interested in me?"  

"Because you're *the* Emma Mitchell," was the response. "The news of your sudden recovery is the biggest news since... well, since forever."  

I was going to be stuck in Emma's body for a while. I realized that now. So I figured it would be wise, even necessary, to know as much as I could about the woman whose body I was wearing.  

"Please," I said, allowing her to lead me back to the bed. "Tell me who exactly I am and why I'm obviously so important."  

The nurse started to say something, stopped, and bit her lip.  

"I'm sorry," she said. "I keep forgetting that you don't really remember who you are. Hold on. I think this will explain better."  

From the pocket of her scrubs, she pulled out a phone and quickly typed something. I guessed she was searching for my name on the internet.  

I really needed to demand a personal phone. I felt so out of touch without one.  

"Here," the nurse said, handing her phone over to me. "This one is a pretty detailed article about you. You are..."  

She was saying something else, but I wasn't listening anymore.  

I stared at the picture of the redhead on the screen. Emma Mitchell, dressed in a dark-colored corporate gown that complemented her complexion, posed for the cover of a popular magazine.  

She looked beautiful, successful, and confident.  

The fact that I looked exactly like that now was hard to take in.  

After a moment or two, I dragged my eyes away from the picture to read the article. A paragraph caught my eye.  

"...Emma Mitchell, married to Alexander Pierce, a young man from an equally wealthy and influential family. Emma is the daughter of the popular business tycoon and billionaire, Timothy Mitchell..."  

Timothy Mitchell.  

I frowned as I thought of that name. It sounded familiar, like something I had heard before and recently too.  

I stopped reading and thought, hoping that the nurse would not interrupt me.  

She didn't. Humming to herself, she moved around the room, fluffing the pillows, straightening the bedsheets, and arranging the objects on the table.  

Suddenly, I sat up and gasped. In a flash, it had come to me. I not only knew Timothy Mitchell. I had met and even talked to him.  

Like it was yesterday, I remembered my business trip to Italy, the last trip I had gone on before I was murdered.  

In an exclusive hotel, I had met him—a tall, broad-shouldered elderly man, easy to talk to, but with a masterful presence.  

I had gotten the impression that he was a proud and stubborn man, not easily convinced. Everyone at the meeting had treated him with respect, but I had noticed they had been distant.  

But over drinks, when the business meeting was over, the talk between us had drifted to family.  

I had been gushing about Samuel, about how he was such a loving and caring husband, and about my adopted daughter, Sophie, when he suddenly seemed to age before my very eyes.  

His green eyes—a lot like Emma's now that I thought about it—had grown soft and sad.  

"My family too used to be a happy one," he had said with a sigh. "Although we have had challenges in the past, just like every other family, I guess. Now my daughter, Emma, is sick. The doctors don't know when or if she will recover, and all my money can't save her."  

Oh, shit!  

To think that I was now in the body of the daughter of the very same man I had felt sorry for!  

This had to be more than a coincidence.  

Was fate or the universe playing a trick on me? Just what the hell was going on?  

"Mrs. Emma?" I heard the nurse say, a worried note in her voice. "Is there a problem?"  

She came over to glance at the phone in my hand.  

I wanted to say "no," but there were a lot of thoughts going around in my head, and I couldn't really think straight.  

"Maybe," said the voice at the back of my head. "Maybe the man you met is a completely different person from this Emma's father."  

It was possible that they were two different people with daughters who had the same name.  

I had just decided to do a quick G****e search of his picture when I heard a heavy step at the door.

As the nurse went over to it, Timothy Mitchell, looking exactly as I remembered, walked in.