Until The Lie, Loved Me by Elle Targaryen Celeste Monroe's picture-perfect marriage was a lie. Behind the doors of her luxurious home lived a man who controlled her, broke her, and left her mourning three lost pregnancies in silence. Then he had an accident. When he wakes from a coma, he's not the same. The cruelty is gone. In its place is tenderness, protectiveness-and a love she never thought she'd feel. For a while, Celeste lets herself believe in miracles. Until she uncovers the truth: the man in her home isn't her husband. He's a spy sent to erase her. Now, Celeste must play a dangerous game-caught between the man who stole her heart and the mission that could end her life. "How do you escape the man sent to destroy you-when your heart is already his?"
View MoreChapter Four I closed the laptop, the screen fading to black as if it, too, wanted to shut down from everything it had just shown me. Don’t fall for him. Jordan’s words shouldn’t have stung. They were truth wrapped in warning, and I’d heard them before—in my own voice, echoing off the walls of my mind during sleepless nights. But something about her saying it out loud made it real in a way I couldn’t unhear. I pushed back from the kitchen table, the chair scraping the floor like it was trying to stop me from standing. My legs felt too light, like I’d forgotten how to hold my own weight. I crossed to the hallway mirror, not because I cared how I looked but because I needed to see the woman living in my skin. She looked… fine. Too fine. Skin unblemished, lips tinted with gloss, hair pulled into a soft braid over one shoulder. To anyone else, I was the picture of a woman loved well. But behind my eyes? I was unraveling. How do you grieve a man who hurt you—and fear the one weari
Chapter ThreeBeneath the SurfaceThe scent of maple and cinnamon pulled me from sleep.For a moment, I forgot where I was. Forgot the last few days. Forgot the camera in the hallway, the stranger in my bed, the way his eyes lingered when he thought I wasn’t watching.I sat up slowly, brushing sleep from my eyes.Liam was humming.The sound drifted through the bedroom door—low and tuneless, like he was trying out a melody he hadn’t fully committed to. I recognized it after a few seconds. It was an old pop song from the early 2000s. He’d once mocked it for being “radio trash.”But now he hummed it like it meant something.I slipped out of bed and padded into the hallway, pausing just before the kitchen. The light was soft, golden through the blinds, and there he was—back turned, sleeves rolled up, flipping French toast on the griddle.His hair was still damp from a shower. He wore a T-shirt that clung to his shoulders and pajama pants I hadn’t seen in years.“Good morning,” he said wit
Chapter TwoHe was still in the living room when I came back inside, one leg crossed over the other, a book in his lap he couldn’t possibly care about.I paused in the doorway.He glanced up, eyes crinkling with a smile. “Thought I’d find you out back. You’ve always liked the garden when you’re restless.”My fingers clenched slightly on the doorknob. I used to sit out there—yes—but never when Liam was home. It was my escape. My little breath of air before the storm of his presence sucked it all out of the room. He used to mock the garden, say it was a waste of money, a distraction from more important things.And yet here he was, knowing things the real Liam never noticed.He patted the couch beside him. “Sit with me.”I moved stiffly across the room and lowered myself into the cushions, careful to keep a cushion’s worth of distance between us.“You’re reading,” I murmured, eyeing the book in his lap. The Bell Jar.He followed my gaze and lifted the book. “It was in your stack. Thought
Chapter OneThey say the most dangerous lies are the ones you tell yourself. I used to think that was poetic nonsense. Now, I know it’s how women like me survive.My name is Celeste Monroe, and until six months ago, I believed I was living every woman’s dream. Lavish home, beautiful smile, doting husband. The kind of life people envy on social media, the kind of life women whisper about at brunch.But behind those high-gloss Instagram photos and polite dinner parties was the truth: I was bleeding out slowly in silence.I lost three pregnancies. Three. I never got to hold them, name them, breathe them in. I mourned alone each time, while Liam—my husband—kept his jaw clenched and eyes cold. His love, if it had ever existed, had vanished by the time the first heartbeat faded.Still, I stayed. Not for love, not even for hope. I stayed because I was afraid.Liam never hit me. He didn't need to. His control came in calculated silences, veiled threats, and the kind of psychological warfare t
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