Chapter 1
Leigh's hands trembled around the newspaper, crinkling the edges and smudging the ink.
According to The Gotham Gazette, it was April 1st. Highs in the low sixties, dropping to the thirties tonight. Seventy percent chance of rain.
Gotham City.
April Fool's Day.
Of course.
She swallowed hard, the page fluttering from her grip to the stack below—just one of many she'd already gone through. The vendor scowled at her, but Leigh didn't care. She backed up until her spine met cold brick, needing the wall more than she wanted to admit.
No.
The word tore from her throat before she could stop it.
No, no, no… this can't be real. I have to be dreaming.
The static buzzing in her ears wasn't helping. Her vision blurred with tears.
I've never had a dream this vivid—not even after John died…
Not even then.
I stared down at my hands. They were trembling—open and closing like they belonged to someone else. My rings caught the meager light trying to break through Gotham's ever-present cloud cover.
My hands, though—
They caught my attention and refused to let go.
Smooth. Tight-skinned. Younger than they should've been.
They looked like mine, but not the hands I saw every day in the mirror. Not the ones that had started to look more and more like my mother's.
I blinked, trying to reconcile what I was seeing.
I wasn't old, per se—but at thirty-eight, there were things I noticed. The way my knuckles stayed puffy longer after a long day. The lines etched at the joints. The faint, permanent dents from years of customer service and menial jobs where I pushed my body too hard and took too few breaks.
The hands in front of me weren't those hands.
My hair, once thick and golden-brown, had dulled and thinned over the years.
My body always ached somewhere. My house was too quiet without John. And my will to give a damn had slowly withered in the dark spaces he left behind.
After he died, I stopped caring. About everything.
My hobbies. My job. My friendships. Me.
The only thing that kept me afloat was the life insurance policy John insisted on after we got married. It had landed just in time to save the house. I was still barely treading water—buried in funeral costs and medical bills—but at least I hadn't needed to beg his family for help. John had known better than to leave me to that.
Mr. Keener—the "suit" who delivered the check—had shown up at my door like a grim reaper with a folder. He told me John had everything planned: life insurance, assets in my name, a living trust, even one-dollar bequests to each of his family members to block them from contesting the will.
That final "fuck you" from John had made me cry harder than the funeral.
He told me from his hospital bed that I'd be okay. That I didn't need to worry. That he'd taken care of everything.
But grief had sunk its claws into me long before he took his last breath.
We used to joke about death. Morbid humor was our love language. We'd laugh about how, if one of us went first, the other wouldn't be far behind.
Neither of us ever wanted to be left behind.
But John made me promise I'd keep going. Said I was too young, that I still had time, that there were things I wanted to do—even if I only wanted to do them with him.
I had promised him. Through clenched teeth and tears and the quiet, hopeless rage of watching someone you love fade away. I promised.
And here I was. Alone. Clutching luggage I hadn't seen in two years.
There was a carry-on and a large wheeled suitcase next to my feet. Mine.
I didn't know how I knew, but I did.
They were the same bags John and I had packed for the cruise. The one we never got to take. I'd shoved them into the back of the closet when his health nosedived too fast for traveling. I hadn't looked at them since.
I didn't even remember keeping them.
Two years.
It had been two years since he died. Since the house fell quiet and everything in it began to feel like a museum of grief.
"Beep!… Beep! Beep!"
A harsh honk jolted me. A cab idled nearby, the engine rumbling like it was getting impatient too.
"Come on, lady! I got mouths t'feed and you're wastin' my time!"
I hesitated only a moment, then reached for the handle of the suitcase, grabbed the carry-on, and started moving. The trunk popped open, but the driver didn't get out.
Typical.
Still, the suitcase lifted easily. Too easily.
Even when I stretched up to catch the edge of the open lid, there was no twinge in my shoulder. No tug in my lower back.
No pain.
That wasn't right. I should've felt something.
Not wanting to get yelled at again, I moved quickly to the unlocked rear door and slid in, the carry-on still in my lap. I unzipped the front pocket, more out of habit than intent… and stopped.
My wallet.
The same one I'd had for years. John bought it for me. One of those sturdy canvas ones in muted colors with frayed edges and a soft spot worn into the side where I always gripped it. I ran my thumb across the fabric, slow and reverent.
"Where to, lady?" the driver asked, not bothering to look back.
My eyes flicked up to the rearview mirror, catching the name from the battered license taped to the plexiglass divider.
Carl.
"Sorry… I… one second, please." I opened the wallet.
There was a thick stack of cash inside. Crisp bills. All my credit cards in their usual slots, looking perfectly untouched. I closed it quickly, not wanting him to see.
My gaze drifted out the windshield—and I blinked. A plane was taking off.
Wait… was I at an airport?
Looking around more carefully, I realized I'd been standing right in front of one.
Yep. Definitely an airport.
"Is there a decent hotel nearby?" I asked slowly. "Something safe. Not too far?"
Carl gave me a long look in the mirror. Not suspicious. Just… assessing.
"Yeah, sure. There's one 'bout ten minutes from here. Good security. In the nice part of the city too. Bit pricey, but you look like you can swing it."
I considered for a beat, then nodded. "That's fine. Thank you, Carl."
His brows lifted slightly. "Huh. Most people don't bother reading the name."
He scoffed softly and turned his attention back to traffic, pulling away from the curb.
"You're not from Gotham, are you, lady?" It wasn't a question, really.
"No," I admitted. "I'm originally from Long Island. New York."
His eyes caught mine in the mirror again, but only for a moment.
"You'd better be careful 'round here," he said. "If you're not a native, Gotham'll eat you alive."
A hollow smile tugged at my lips. I looked out the window at the city as we drove past unfamiliar buildings.
"I'll be just fine, then. I wouldn't make much of a meal."
Carl frowned at that, and I could see him trying to think of what to say—then giving up with a quiet grumble.
The trip was quick, just like Carl promised.
He pulled up in front of a hotel that looked more like something out of a movie than a place people actually stayed. A deep navy fabric awning stretched over the drive, gold trim catching in the dull daylight. Several bellhops and valets were already waiting, poised like chess pieces in perfectly pressed uniforms.
One of them made a beeline for the trunk, lifting my suitcase out like it weighed nothing.
I reached into my wallet and pulled out three hundred-dollar bills, slipping them through the worn slot in the plexiglass.
Carl's eyes widened as he took the money, his mouth opening slightly in shock as he looked at the bills—then at me.
"I know it's not much," I said quietly, "but I hope it helps."
He swallowed, tucking the cash away carefully. Before I could finish stepping out of the cab, he stopped me.
"Here. Take this."
He handed me a card—simple, slightly bent on the corners. It had his name, the cab company, and a handwritten number on the back.
"I don't do this often," he added, not quite meeting my eyes. "But if you find yourself in a bind… and you need a ride… call me. I ain't promisin' anything, but if I'm free, and I can expect tips like that…"
He trailed off with a shrug.
There was something oddly comforting about his gruff kindness. I took the card and offered a small, grateful smile.
"Thanks, Carl."
I lifted my carry-on and followed the bellhop into the hotel.
The lobby was huge.
Polished marble floors gleamed beneath soaring columns. Elegant sculptures dotted the space like museum pieces, each one more expensive-looking than the last. Light spilled in from massive windows, but everything still felt muted—like money didn't need to shout here. It just... was.
I followed the bellhop to the check-in desk where a pretty brunette stood poised behind a sleek counter, her customer service smile already in place.
She looked young. Polished. Probably still liked her job. I could tell. I'd worn that same bright, pleasant mask for years.
"Hello, welcome to the Gotham Royal. How can I help you today?" she asked, her tone perfectly rehearsed.
"Hi. I don't have a reservation," I admitted, adjusting the carry-on strap on my shoulder. "But I was hoping you might have a room available? I just arrived in the city, and… a friend recommended this place."
A little white lie.
I figured it couldn't hurt to make it sound like I wasn't completely alone in a strange city.
"Of course," she said warmly. "May I have your name, please?"
I hesitated.
"Oh… does the name I give have to match what's on my cards?" I shifted slightly. "I… lost my husband recently. I haven't done the paperwork to change anything yet."
That part wasn't a lie.
Sympathy flickered in her expression, soft and genuine. "I'm so sorry for your loss," she murmured. "You're very young…"
She blinked, then recovered her professional tone. "But no, it's not a problem. You can check in under a different name than what's on the card."
"Thanks. My name's Leigh. Leigh Ashton. My maiden name."
She nodded and tapped the keys with practiced ease. "Let's see what we've got available…"
Sarah's fingers tapped out a rhythm as she scanned the screen in front of her.
"Okay," she said, glancing up. "We have several rooms available—including the Presidential Suite, the CEO Suite, and a few of our standard rooms."
She paused, letting the words hang before continuing.
"Both suites come with full amenities, but the Presidential includes unlimited access to our in-house salon and spa, all room service, and meals from our five-star, Michelin-rated restaurant."
I blinked.
All of that sounded… excessive.
But if my accounts still worked here?
The cab driver took the cash without blinking. My cards were all exactly where I'd left them. I hadn't had a chance to try them yet, but if this hotel was legit, and I could get a room—
I had over two million across several accounts. A ridiculously high line of credit. John had made sure of that, too.
It can't hurt to try.
"I'll take the Presidential Suite," I said carefully. "I'm not sure how long I'll be staying, so… if you could book it for the next two weeks?"
"Of course, Ms. Ashton." Sarah's smile didn't falter. "May I have your card, please?"
I handed it over and watched her closely, waiting for something—anything—to go wrong.
But there wasn't even a flicker of hesitation.
She returned the card a moment later with a cheerful, "All set. Welcome to the Royal."
Huh.
So my accounts were valid here.
Was this actually the Gotham? The fictional city from comics and cartoons and dark crime shows?
Or was there some hidden Gotham, New Jersey tucked away somewhere in the real world I'd just… never noticed?
Either way, I was really going to need to do some research.
"Is there secure internet available in the room?" I asked, my voice carefully casual.
Just covering my bases. I needed to know what kind of reality I'd landed in—and I'd need access to do it.
Sarah looked up from her screen and smiled. "Oh yes. Here's our informational brochure." She handed me a folded cream cardstock pamphlet with gold lettering.
"It includes Wi-Fi passcodes, hours of operation for all our services, and a complete list of amenities. If you need anything else, feel free to call the front desk at any time. We're happy to assist, Ms. Ashton."
She handed over two sleek, black key cards. "Richard will take your luggage and show you to your room. Please enjoy your stay."
The bellhop—tall, clean-cut, maybe twenty years old—offered a quiet nod and started walking toward the elevators at the far end of the lobby. I followed, still clutching the information packet and the key cards like they were the only real things in the room.
Everything around me gleamed—mirrored walls, polished marble, gold accents. It was luxurious to the point of absurdity.
The mirrored elevator opened with a soft chime, and Richard stepped in first. It only went to the second-to-last floor. I tried not to react as he pressed the button marked "47." So. The Presidential Suite took up half a floor. The rooftop garden and pool must've taken up the other half.
When the doors opened, he walked me down a silent hall of heavy wood paneling and lush carpet, then unlocked the door with a quiet click and stepped aside to let me in.
The suite was huge.
Formal sitting area, fireplace, enormous flat-screen TV, plush rugs, and windows that framed Gotham's skyline like art.
Richard brought my bags inside and set them gently near the entryway.
I pulled my wallet from my coat pocket and slipped him a hundred-dollar bill. "Thank you."
He accepted it with a quiet nod and a soft "Enjoy your stay, Ms. Ashton," before turning and disappearing with the soundless grace of someone trained to vanish behind wealth.
And then—finally—I was alone.
I took my bags through the formal sitting area—past the fireplace, the massive TV, the designer furniture—and into the master bedroom.
The king-sized bed stood nearly hip height, smothered in pillows and expensive-looking blankets. Everything was rich and coordinated in neutral creams and golds.
On the ornate nightstand, I found a box of chocolates nestled against a cream-colored card embossed with gold foil. Inside, in neat handwriting, was a personalized welcome from the hotel staff.
I kicked off my boots, letting them fall with soft thuds to the thick carpet.
Climbing onto the bed was easier than expected. I collapsed onto my back in the center of it, limbs sinking into the plush mattress.
Above me, the ceiling medallion gleamed—gold, intricate, pointless.
I stared at it, willing my thoughts to still.
What's the last thing I remember?
For the life of me… I couldn't say.
The last clear memory I had before the airport was going to bed. I usually tossed and turned for hours unless I took something, which I rarely did—prescription sleep meds made me feel hungover for half the next day. I vaguely remembered an argument with John's family… but that could've been a dream. Or an old memory looping again.
Trying to force it was like chasing smoke with bare hands.
The harder I reached, the faster it slipped through.
With a quiet groan, I sat up.
First things first: catalog my resources.
I stretched across the bed and snagged the carry-on, dragging it into my lap.
Unpacking was like opening a time capsule. Everything inside was mine. Familiar. Intimate.
My small trinket box with all my jewelry. A pair of black sneakers. Dress shoes. Hat, scarf, gloves. A couple sweaters. A sweatshirt. Two pairs of jeans. Several leggings, slacks, two skirts, two of my favorite dresses. Pretty tops folded neatly. A few nightgowns. My makeup bag, tucked carefully into a side pocket.
All things I would've packed myself, if I'd been planning a real trip.
And in the back pocket—
A sealed, waterproof folder.
I opened it slowly.
My birth certificate.
High school diploma.
Social Security card.
Passport.
Marriage license.
John's death certificate.
My heart stuttered.
Who packed this?
I didn't have an answer.
My laptop was tucked securely into the carry-on, exactly where I always kept it—wrapped in its charger cord like a little cocoon. I pulled it out, then paused when I noticed something else.
Cash. More of it.
Over five thousand dollars in crisp bills, neatly folded and banded.
I had never carried that much in my life.
What the hell was happening to me?
I shook my head and took a breath, forcing my fingers to move. Do something, Leigh. Anything but sit here and spiral. I grabbed the hotel's info packet, connected to the Wi-Fi, and opened a browser.
Then froze.
What do I even type? What to do when you find yourself in a fictional city?
Was Gotham an actual city? Was I in some obscure pocket of New Jersey that had leaned a little too hard into comic book cosplay?
Or was this something else entirely?
I started simple.
"Gotham."
Search results populated instantly. A map. Real districts. Street names. Local businesses. Restaurants, boutiques, transit lines. I saved the names of a few places—some well-known, some local—then pulled up the closest cell phone store. I didn't know how long I'd be here, but a working phone could only help.
Tomorrow, I'd try to remember everything I could about Batman and his world.
Unfortunately for me, I'd always been more of a Marvel fan.
I was really going to have my work cut out for me.
With a tired sigh, I closed the laptop and set it on the nightstand. My brain was buzzing, nerves stretched tight. Every noise from the hallway made me jump.
Bathroom next. Maybe a shower.
The bathroom was massive. Marble floors. Double sinks. Gold fixtures. A sunken tub with too many buttons and a standing shower with six heads and spa settings I didn't have the energy to figure out.
But none of that held my attention.
It was the mirror.
Or—more specifically—the woman staring back at me from it.
She was me. But not.
This was me when John and I got married. Twenty-one, maybe twenty-three at most. My features were the same, but softened. Youthful. Unburdened.
My eyes were the bright bluish-gray I hadn't seen in years. No glasses needed.
My hair—dark, thick, and wavy—tumbled down my back in glossy waves streaked with sun-kissed highlights. I hadn't worn it down in years. I hadn't been able to. It always felt like too much work.
My skin was clear. A little pale, maybe, but glowing in that way young skin just does.
I was also about twenty pounds heavier.
Not bloated. Not sluggish. Just… soft. Curvy in the way I used to be before hospital meals and sleepless nights chipped away at my health. Before the grief lived in my spine and the stress rooted itself in my gut. Before I'd started moving like I had to calculate every motion in advance to avoid hurting.
Now I just moved.
No stutter. No catch.
I lifted a hand to my face—then slowly covered it with both palms.
I stood there.
Breathing.
Not breathing.
Shaking a little.
Out of everything that had happened in the last few hours…
This—this moment—was the one that really shook me.
Well… just standing here is silly. Shower. Easy. Just a shower.
I turned on the standing shower, letting the water run hot while I undressed. The pressure was incredible—steady and strong, not a drip or blast, just… perfect.
The little hotel bottles of shampoo and conditioner smelled like honeysuckle. Calming. Familiar in a way that made my chest ache.
I tried not to linger.
Tried not to look too long.
Tried not to touch the parts of myself I hadn't seen looking this way in over a decade.
I didn't want to think about what this meant.
I didn't want to feel grateful—or guilty—or anything at all.
I just wanted to be clean.
Wrapped in a thick, fluffy towel, skin still steaming, I stepped into the bedroom. I rubbed a second towel through my hair, trying to keep my thoughts from catching fire again.
It was almost six. I was wiped.
No point in getting dressed just to go out for an hour or two. I'd explore tomorrow.
There was a menu by the hotel phone, all printed cardstock and elegant fonts. I skimmed through it and ordered dinner and a bottle of wine the chef recommended to pair with the entrée. The voice on the other end was warm and efficient. Professional luxury.
I was still tugging on a pair of pajamas when the knock came.
The meal was delivered on a cart polished to a mirror shine, complete with linen napkins and covered dishes. It was so extra I almost laughed.
Almost.
But then I took my first bite and… okay. Maybe expensive food was worth the price.
By the time I wheeled the cart into the hallway, the sky outside had deepened to navy blue. Gotham glittered below, alive and sprawling. The floor-to-ceiling windows offered a postcard-perfect view—one I barely noticed.
I stood there in silence. Just watching.
Arms crossed.
Hugging myself.
I felt… lost. Adrift.
Not for the first time, I imagined someone else's arms around me. Not mine. Not this cold, quiet self-hug that tried to replace real comfort.
The ache in my chest burned like fire trapped beneath my ribs. It refused to let me take a deep breath.
The sobs came anyway.
Silent at first—then shaking. Screaming through my blood like banshees.
These were the worst kinds of nights. The ones that cracked me open.
The ones where I took the pills even knowing how I'd feel the next morning.
The ones where John's death wasn't a scar. It was a bleeding wound all over again.
I prayed for mercy from gods I didn't believe in.
The bottle of wine waited on the nightstand, still uncorked beside a clean glass and the fancy chocolates from earlier.
I left the curtains open and climbed into bed, grabbing both.
The chocolates didn't last long. The wine lasted longer, but not by much.
Still, I had a few brain cells left—enough to drink two glasses of water and take a couple Advil, thoughtfully left with the wine.
With any luck, I wouldn't wake up with a hangover.
Just another morning in someone else's skin.
