The Pharaoh's Bride

Jack proposed to me deep inside the tomb of Nefertari, slipping a ring onto my finger as the tour group applauded. That night, under the moonlight, we drank from the waters of the Nile. By morning, the ring had vanished. I frantically tore the hotel room apart, but Jack didn't help. He just sat on the bed, watching me with a strange, calculating hunger in his eyes. As our trip went on, something bizarre happened. I instinctively knew the translations of weathered hieroglyphs before the guide spoke. I knew exactly which stone slabs in the temples hid empty chambers. On our last day in Cairo, an old woman in a dusty bazaar grabbed my bare hand. "You forgot who you were," she rasped, pressing a heavy, freezing gold band into my palm. She pointed to a tarnished bronze mirror. In the reflection, I saw my own face. But looming right behind me was the towering, shadowy figure of a man in an ancient royal headdress. "Ivy, let's go!" Jack yelled from the alleyway, his voice impatient. I stared at the shadow in the mirror, slipped the freezing gold band onto my ring finger, and turned my back on Jack forever.