Until The Lie Loved Me

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

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 FiveI didn’t sleep.Not really.Every time I closed my eyes, I felt the ghost of his lips on my skin. Not in a haunting way—but in a way that made my body ache with confusion.Outside, the woods whispered to themselves, the branches creaking like old secrets. Inside, the fire had burned low, casting a soft orange halo across the cabin walls. I lay on one side of the bed—stiff, guarded, half-covered by the quilt—while he slept a breath away.Or pretended to.“Are you awake?” I whispered.His voice was a low hum in the dark. “Yeah.”Of course he was.Silence again. Long and loaded.“I keep thinking I’m going to wake up,” I said, “and none of this will be real. That you’ll be gone. Or worse, that he’ll be back.”He shifted beside me, turning onto his side so we were face to face in the dark. “Celeste... he’s not coming back.”“Except he already has,” I murmured. “Every time I look at you.”His hand moved slowly, sliding between us until his fingers found mine. “Then look deeper.

Chapter Seven I waited until he thought I was asleep. The fire had burned down to embers, casting the room in shadows that stretched long and sharp across the wooden floor. He sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. I watched him through half-lidded eyes, pretending the weight of exhaustion had finally claimed me. But inside, I was boiling. That photo had shattered something. Not just the illusion of safety, but the illusion of ignorance. I couldn’t pretend anymore. Not when my face had been photographed by someone who wasn’t supposed to exist. Not when the man who now watched over me like a bodyguard with too much guilt might’ve once been my executioner. “Why didn’t you tell me the truth?” My voice broke the silence, low but steady. He looked up sharply. “Celeste…” “Don’t say my name like that,” I snapped, sitting up fully. “Like you know me. Like you haven’t been lying to me since the moment you opened your eyes in that hospital bed.” His lips

Chapter Nine *Jordan* She thinks she can hide. That’s the first thing I think as I light a cigarette and lean against the hood of the black SUV parked at the edge of the gas station. A run-down joint with peeling signage and a weak overhead light buzzing like a fly that refused to die. This was her kind of place now, wasn’t it? Somewhere quiet. Anonymous. Easy to vanish into. But she’d never been good at staying gone. I blow out a slow stream of smoke, watching it curl toward the sky before dissipating into the humid morning air. A week ago, I’d woken up in a hospital bed with a hole in my memory and a burning certainty in my chest: something was wrong. The doctors said head trauma. Confusion. Temporary memory loss. Bullshit. Because I remembered her. Celeste. My wife. My property. And I remembered what it felt like to own her. But something was off. The house had been cleaned. Too clean. My gun safe—emptied. My private phone wiped. And her closet? Bare.