Until The Lie Loved Me

Chapter One

They 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 I*******m 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 that made you question your own sanity. He tore me down with smiles in public and silence in private, and the bruises he left were on my mind, not my skin.

Then one night, the phone rang. A crash. A coma. A second chance?

When he opened his eyes two weeks later, something was… off. Different. This Liam looked at me like I mattered. Like I was real. He touched me gently. Asked about my day. Cried when I mentioned the babies we lost.

And for the first time in years, I felt seen.

I should’ve known better.

Because love—true love—doesn’t grow from wreckage unless something else is buried beneath it. And the man I started to fall for? He wasn't my husband. Not really.

He was a lie dressed in my husband's skin.

Now I’m trapped in a web I didn’t spin, playing wife to a man who was sent to end me.

And the worst part?

I think I love him.

---

He brings me tea every morning now—chamomile, two teaspoons of honey, just the way I like it.

Funny thing is, I never told Liam how I liked my tea.

This morning, I sit on the edge of our pristine bed, silk robe knotted at the waist, and watch him move around the kitchen like he’s always belonged there. Like he didn’t once call cooking “a woman’s duty.” He hums softly—off key—and there’s a softness to his face that used to only show when we had guests.

“You’re up early,” he says when he notices me, placing the mug in my hands like a peace offering. Like I haven’t been waking before him every day since he came home, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“I couldn’t sleep,” I answer, voice calm. Practiced. “You?”

He shrugs. “Had a dream. About us. The lake house.”

The lake house. The one we sold two years ago, right after the second miscarriage. He hated that place—called it a waste of money and memories. Now he talks about it like it was our sanctuary.

I nod, sip the tea, and smile as though the lie doesn’t burn my throat on the way down.

Every day since the accident, I’ve felt like I’m living with a stranger wearing my husband’s face. He has his body, his voice, his scent—but not his mannerisms. Not his memories. Not his rage.

And now he’s saying things, recalling moments we never lived. Like the time we danced in the rain in Italy—we never went to Italy. Or the dog we almost adopted. Liam hated animals. Hated mess. Hated anything he couldn’t control.

Last night, when he held me in his arms, he whispered, “I’d never hurt you.”

But Liam had. Repeatedly.

So who is this man who looks like him?

And why is he pretending?

---

I head to the office after breakfast—the room he never used, the one I turned into a reading nook while he was in the hospital. There’s a box tucked in the back corner of the closet. My fail-safe. The only thing I’ve kept hidden from him—either of him.

I pull it out, fingers trembling. Inside: an old burner phone, copies of bank statements, a flash drive… and a gun I’ve never dared to use.

I stare at the screen as I type in the number I never thought I’d call again.

It rings once.

Twice.

A voice answers, low and tired. “Celeste?”

“I need your help,” I say. “Liam… he’s not who he says he is.”

There’s a pause. A breath.

Then: “I’m on my way.”

I hang up the phone, pulse hammering in my throat. It’s been almost four years since I spoke to Jordan. Back then, he was my brother-in-law’s shadow—military-grade quiet, eyes that missed nothing. He warned me once, after Liam shoved me at a party and claimed I tripped. Told me if I ever needed an out, he could make things “go away.”

I told him I had everything under control.

God, I was such a fool.

I tuck the burner back into the box and push it deep beneath a pile of old linens in the closet. Just as I rise to my feet, I hear footsteps in the hallway—steady, calm. My pulse jolts.

“Hey,” he says from the doorway.

I turn to find him leaning against the frame, arms folded. The light from the hall casts shadows over his face, but he’s smiling. Warm. Easy.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says. “Just came to ask if you wanted to take a walk later. There’s this new trail I read about near Silverpine.”

Silverpine. Liam hated the outdoors. Allergic to mosquitoes, always complained about dirt on his shoes. I’ve been keeping track now—tiny things, subtle things. Tea. Dogs. The rain. Silverpine.

Each one a pin on a map of lies.

I force a smile. “Sure. That sounds… nice.”

He steps closer. I don’t move.

His hand touches my shoulder. Light. Affectionate. It would be sweet—romantic, even—if I didn’t feel like I was standing on a trapdoor.

“I’m really glad you’re giving me another chance,” he says softly. “I know I don’t remember everything perfectly, but I’m trying. I want to be the man you deserve.”

I swallow. Hard. “I know you are.”

He leans in, brushes a kiss against my temple. I resist the urge to flinch.

Because this man smells like Liam. Moves like Liam.

But the man I married never looked at me like this—like I was a treasure, not a burden. And the Liam I knew would never apologize for forgetting.

This man says “I’m trying.”

Liam never tried.

When he walks away, I exhale shakily and sit back down, heart racing.

Something is coming. I can feel it, a storm gathering just beyond the trees.

And when Jordan gets here, I’ll have to decide: expose the man who made me feel safe for the first time in years—or let myself fall for the only lie that’s ever loved me.

---

By late afternoon, I’ve folded every blanket in the house, wiped down spotless counters, and organized the spice rack alphabetically—twice. I keep busy to keep my hands from shaking, to keep my thoughts from spiraling.

But no matter how many distractions I find, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m running out of time.

At 4:32 p.m., I hear the unmistakable crunch of tires on gravel. My breath catches.

He’s early.

I move to the window and peek through the curtain.

There he is—Jordan Wolfe.

Dressed in all black, sunglasses shielding his face, posture sharp and alert. His beard’s a little thicker, and he’s broader now, but the tension in his body is exactly the same. Like he’s expecting the world to turn on him at any moment.

I slip out the back door and meet him by the gate, heart pounding so hard it hurts.

He lifts his sunglasses the second he sees me.

“Celeste.”

It’s not a question. It’s a warning wrapped in my name.

He steps forward, scanning me quickly—eyes raking over every inch of my face like he’s counting invisible bruises. I offer him a faint smile.

“You look exactly the same,” I say, voice hoarse.

He doesn’t return the smile. “You don’t.”

That stings more than it should.

“I don’t have long,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. “I drove straight here from Virginia. Had to use an old contact to find you. Your records are all scrubbed. Like someone was hiding you.”

“Or watching me,” I whisper.

His eyes narrow. “Talk.”

I hesitate. “He came home from the hospital different. Kinder. Thoughtful. He’s saying things Liam would never say. Doing things he would’ve mocked.”

“You’re saying he lost his memory?”

“I’m saying… he’s not my husband.”

Jordan stares at me a beat, jaw working.

“You think he’s a body double.”

I nod. “A spy. A plant. I don’t know. But someone sent him here. And he’s doing everything in his power to make me forget who Liam really was.”

Jordan’s eyes flash cold. “Has he hurt you?”

“No.” I hesitate. “Not yet.”

“Then it’s only a matter of time.”

I grab his arm. “He’s good, Jordan. He knows everything. The house, the routines, the way Liam talked. He has access. And worse… he’s making me care.”

Jordan curses under his breath and runs a hand through his hair. “Then we don’t have time to waste. We need proof. I’ll start with surveillance. If he’s not your husband, he slipped up somewhere.”

I nod. My hands are trembling again. Jordan notices, and for a second, his face softens.

“We’re going to get you out of this,” he says. “But Celeste…”

I look up.

“If this guy isn’t Liam… then who the hell is he?”