Lies Cost Her Everything

The phone call came at 3 a.m., shattering the silence of our penthouse bedroom.

"Mrs. Reed? Your husband had an accident during his climbing expedition. He's at Mount Sinai Hospital."

My hands trembled as I dressed, my jade bracelet—Mother's last gift—clicking softly against my wrist. Atticus did this every year, shouting my name from those terrifying cliffs like some romantic declaration. I'd begged him to stop, but he insisted it was his way of proving his love remained as fierce as the day he completed those 99 impossible tasks Father had set.

The hospital corridor reeked of antiseptic and fear. I pushed through the doors to find Atticus conscious, bruised, but alive. Relief flooded through me until I noticed her.

A woman sat beside his bed, her hand resting possessively on his arm. She had delicate features and calculated tears glistening in her eyes—the kind of tears that seemed rehearsed rather than genuine.

"You must be Lena," she said softly, her voice carrying false warmth. "I'm Maryam Baker. I caught your husband when his rope snapped."

"Thank you." The words felt inadequate. "Thank you for saving him."

Atticus looked at her with something I'd never seen in his eyes before—a mixture of gratitude and fascination that made my stomach clench. "She knew exactly where to position herself, Lena. Like she'd been waiting for me to fall."

Maryam's smile was too perfect. "I've always been good at reading situations."

Over the following days, Maryam became a constant presence. She brought Atticus rare photography books, discussed his abandoned dreams with intimate knowledge, visited during the precise windows when I had to leave for errands. Each time I returned, I found them deep in conversation, their heads bent close together.

"She understands me," Atticus said one evening, his tone almost defensive when I asked about her constant visits. "She sees who I really am, not just the businessman I became."

The words stung more than he knew. I'd watched him sacrifice his photography for me, guilt eating at my conscience despite his insistence that he chose it willingly.

On the fifth day, Maryam's visits took a darker turn. I arrived with homemade soup to find her crying softly, Atticus holding her hand with fierce protectiveness.

"What happened?" I set down the soup, concern overriding the strange jealousy twisting in my chest.

Maryam looked up, her eyes red-rimmed but somehow calculating beneath the tears. "I'm sorry, Lena. I didn't want to say anything, but the memories are becoming overwhelming."

"Memories?"

"From my past life." She spoke the words like a confession, watching Atticus rather than me. "I've been having these vivid dreams since childhood. When I saw Atticus falling, everything clicked into place. We knew each other before—all three of us did."

I should have laughed. I should have recognized the manipulation. Instead, I felt ice spreading through my veins as Atticus leaned forward, completely captivated.

"Tell her," he urged. "She needs to know the truth."

Maryam's next words destroyed my world with surgical