The Real Mrs. Vale

The door creaked open before I could even process what he’d said.

She stood there like she owned the rain.

Tall, flawless, wrapped in a black coat that looked more expensive than my rent. Her dark hair was sleek, not a drop of water on it, and her red lips curved into a smile that made my stomach twist.

Lucien froze, gun still in his hand, but she didn’t even flinch.

“Still aiming at me, darling?” she said softly. “You always were dramatic.”

Her voice was silk and poison at once.

Lucien’s jaw tightened. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Neither should you,” she said, her eyes sliding to me. “And who’s this?”

Her gaze ran over me like a knife. I could feel the judgment in every second of her silence.

Lucien stepped between us slightly. “She’s no one.”

That word stung more than the rain ever could.

“No one?” she repeated, pretending to look amused. “That’s funny. You don’t usually bring ‘no one’ to your safehouses.”

I crossed my arms, trying to steady my voice. “Who are you exactly?”

She smiled—slow, confident, terrifying. “Oh, sweetheart. I’m his wife.”

The room seemed to shrink. My chest went tight, my mind scrambled for words, but none came out.

Lucien muttered, “Not anymore.”

Her smile faded a little. “You should tell her the truth before she gets hurt.”

“Enough,” he said sharply.

She arched a brow. “Touchy subject?”

“Get out.”

“I’m not leaving.” She walked past him like she belonged there, heels clicking on the floor. Her eyes didn’t leave me as she said, “He told you he was married, didn’t he? Or does he still use that story where he’s the tragic loner with too many secrets?”

I swallowed hard. “You don’t know me.”

“No,” she said softly. “But I know him. And that’s enough.”

Lucien moved between us again. “You’re not here to talk about me. Why are you here?”

“Because they sent me,” she said simply.

That made him pause. “Who?”

She leaned against the counter. “The same people you’re running from. They want the data back, Lucien. You know what happens if they don’t get it.”

“I destroyed it.”

She laughed—a sharp, disbelieving sound. “You really think I’d believe that?”

He didn’t answer.

She turned back to me, eyes narrowing. “You have it, don’t you?”

I gripped the envelope instinctively.

Her lips curved again. “Oh, darling. You shouldn’t touch things that aren’t yours.”

“Neither should you,” I said quietly.

Lucien gave me a look—half warning, half admiration. “Clara, stay out of this.”

“No,” I snapped. “I’ve been shot at, chased, lied to, and now there’s a mystery wife showing up like this is some spy soap opera. You don’t get to tell me to stay out of it.”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue.

The woman—Mrs. Vale, apparently—watched me with something like amusement. “You’ve got fire. He always liked that.”

“Enough,” Lucien said again, this time more forcefully. “You’re not part of this anymore.”

“Not part of it?” she repeated. “Lucien, I built this life with you. I helped you steal that data. And now you’re hiding with her?”

Her words landed like shards of glass. I didn’t want to care, but I did. I hated that I did.

Lucien’s voice turned low, dangerous. “You betrayed me.”

“I did what I had to do,” she said softly. “You were going to run without me.”

“I was trying to save you.”

She smiled sadly. “And look where that got us.”

Silence. The kind that burns.

I looked between them, completely lost, but neither of them seemed to notice me anymore.

Then she said, “Give me the girl, and I’ll tell them you’re dead.”

Lucien stepped forward, his tone icy. “You’re not touching her.”

Her eyes flicked to me again. “She’s not worth dying for.”

“Neither were you,” he shot back.

Her expression cracked for a moment. Just a moment. Then she smiled again, all mask and venom. “You always did know how to hurt me.”

Lucien reached for his gun again, slow and deliberate. “You should leave before I finish what I started two years ago.”

Her smile didn’t fade. “You can’t kill me. Not when I still have your name.”

Then she turned to me. “And you, Clara Vale, should ask yourself what it costs to wear another woman’s identity.”

Her words made my stomach drop. “What do you mean?”

She tilted her head. “Did he tell you what happened to the last woman who pretended to be me?”

Lucien’s hand tightened on his weapon. “Don’t.”

Her smile widened. “She’s buried in Prague.”

“Enough!” he barked.

The tension snapped like a wire.

Lucien moved fast—too fast. He grabbed her wrist before she could reach into her coat. I heard the metallic click of a gun hitting the floor.

They struggled for a moment, then she broke free, eyes blazing.

“You’re making a mistake, Lucien,” she hissed. “You can’t protect her. You couldn’t even protect me.”

Lucien didn’t flinch. “Get out.”

This time, she actually did. She picked up her gun, slipped it back into her coat, and walked to the door without another glance at me.

Just before she left, she said, “They’ll come for her next. And when they do, I’ll make sure she dies wearing your ring.”

The door slammed behind her.

For a few seconds, all I could hear was my own heartbeat.

Lucien holstered his gun and rubbed a hand over his face. “You okay?”

I laughed—a shaky, humorless sound. “Define okay.”

He didn’t smile. He just sank into the nearest chair, silent for a long moment.

Finally, I said, “So… she’s really your wife?”

“Was.”

“She seemed very alive for an ex.”

He looked at me, eyes tired. “You shouldn’t have met her.”

“That’s not exactly my fault.”

He nodded slowly. “No. It’s mine.”

Silence again. The storm outside had faded, but the air inside was heavier than ever.

“Lucien,” I said quietly, “what did she mean—about the last woman who pretended to be her?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the table, jaw tight, like he was fighting himself.

“Lucien,” I pressed. “Tell me.”

He finally met my eyes. “She wasn’t lying.”

My stomach flipped. “What?”

“The woman before you,” he said quietly. “She was my partner. We used her as a cover. She didn’t make it out.”

I stepped back, shaking my head. “And now I’m what—her replacement?”

His voice was rough. “No. You’re my only way out.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

He stood, too close now, his voice low and steady. “It’s supposed to make you understand why I can’t lose you.”

My pulse jumped. I hated that it did.

Before I could answer, a faint sound came from outside—a car engine, idling too long.

Lucien went still.

He crossed the room, pulled the curtain back just enough to peek out.

His voice dropped. “They found us.”

I froze. “How?”

“Because she led them here.”

The headlights outside brightened, flooding through the window.

Lucien turned to me, eyes sharp. “Get your things. We run again.”

I hesitated. “Lucien, if we keep running—”

He cut me off, grabbing my hand. “There’s no if. We run.”

Then a shot shattered the front window. Glass rained across the floor.

Lucien pulled me down behind the couch, his breath ragged.

“Clara,” he whispered, pressing the gun into my trembling hands, “if I don’t make it—”

“Don’t say that.”

“—you keep moving. Don’t stop. Not for me.”

“Lucien—”

Another shot hit the wall inches from my face.

He looked at me one last time, eyes fierce. “You wanted the truth? You’re in it now.”

He stood, firing back through the broken window.

And as the house filled with gunfire and chaos, I realized this was no longer his fight.

It was ours.