The Alias of Mrs. Vale

The first thing I noticed when I stepped out of Heathrow Airport was how gray everything looked. The sky, the road, even the people seemed to wear the same shade of tired. My suitcase wheels rattled behind me like they were complaining about being in a new country.

“Welcome to London,” I whispered under my breath, half excited, half terrified.

It was supposed to be a new start. A three-month marketing project that could finally get me out of my hometown and prove I was more than the quiet girl who never took risks. I’d promised myself this time I’d be bold—say yes more, overthink less.

Easier said than done.

I stopped by the baggage carousel, my eyes tracking the endless loop of suitcases. Everyone else seemed to spot theirs in seconds. I kept waiting for my plain navy bag with the pink ribbon tied to the handle.

A black suitcase slid by that looked just like mine—same brand, same size. Only, no ribbon. I hesitated, then laughed at myself. Maybe the ribbon had fallen off. I grabbed it before it disappeared again.

Dragging it through the crowd, I checked the tag. Faded sticker. My name wasn’t there, but who still used tags these days? I shrugged it off. Jet lag and logic never got along anyway.

Outside, a gust of cold air slapped my face. My cab driver—a man with kind eyes and a bright yellow turban—helped me load the bag into the trunk.

“First time in London, miss?” he asked.

“Yeah. Hoping I don’t get lost before tomorrow.”

He chuckled. “Everyone gets lost once. After that, you’ll start calling it home.”

The drive was quiet except for the hum of the city. I watched people rushing under umbrellas, lights flickering through drizzle, buildings rising like old secrets. London was the kind of place that didn’t try to impress you. It simply existed, knowing you’d fall for it anyway.

When I reached my rented flat—a cozy studio near Paddington—I paid the driver, hauled the suitcase upstairs, and dropped it on the floor. My arms ached, my stomach begged for food, but curiosity won.

I unzipped the suitcase.

Inside were neat rows of clothes… not mine.

Men’s shirts. Tailored. Crisp. A sleek black jacket. A pair of Italian leather shoes.

“Oh no,” I muttered, sitting back on my heels. “No, no, no.”

I checked every pocket, hoping for an ID or a number. Instead, I found something heavier than fabric. I pulled it out—metallic, cold.

A gun.

I froze. My heart stumbled. It wasn’t a toy. I didn’t have to be an expert to know that.

I stared at it like it might suddenly explain itself. Beneath it, there was an envelope—unmarked—and a smaller velvet pouch. I hesitated, then opened the envelope.

A stack of cash stared back at me. Euros, pounds, and something else I didn’t recognize. Tens of thousands, maybe more.

“What the hell…” My voice shook.

The pouch held a wedding ring. Simple, silver, elegant. Engraved on the inside: For M.V.

M.V.?

I dropped everything back into the suitcase, slammed it shut, and backed away as if it could explode.

My brain scrambled for logic. Maybe someone at the airport had a similar bag. Maybe this belonged to some paranoid businessman. Maybe I should call the police.

Yeah, the police. That sounded responsible.

I reached for my phone—then froze when someone knocked on the door.

Three sharp knocks. Not hesitant. Confident.

I glanced at the clock. Nearly midnight. No one should know I was here.

“Who is it?” I called out, my voice smaller than I wanted.

Silence. Then a man’s voice, deep and steady.

“Mrs. Vale?”

My heart stopped.

“I—I think you have the wrong apartment,” I said, forcing a shaky laugh. “No one by that name here.”

A pause. Then the handle turned. Slowly.

I jumped back, clutching my phone like a weapon.

“Mrs. Vale,” the voice repeated, calmer this time, closer. “Open the door. We don’t have much time.”

Every instinct screamed no.

Another knock—louder, impatient.

My gaze darted to the suitcase still gaping on the floor. The gun, the money, the ring.

Whoever Mrs. Vale was, I had her luggage.

And someone was very sure that person was me.

I took one careful step back. Then another. My pulse roared in my ears.

The lock clicked once.

Then again.

I barely had time to whisper, “Oh, God,” before the door swung open and a man stepped inside.

Tall. Dark suit. Cold blue eyes that didn’t miss a thing.

He looked straight at me, expression unreadable, and said, “Run.”

And I did.