The storm outside roared like a living beast, but Valeria Monroe barely noticed. Her world had narrowed to the delicate brush strokes before her, the centuries-old painting whispering its secrets as her gloved hands worked to unveil the truth buried beneath layers of age and ash.
Another long-forgotten piece of history—one more orphan of time in her care.
Lightning slashed across the wide windows of her studio, momentarily casting her reflection on the glass. Haunted eyes. Tousled dark hair pulled into a messy knot. A paint-smeared sweatshirt that had once belonged to someone she tried hard not to remember.
But what caught her attention now wasn't her own reflection.
It was a tear.
Not in the canvas—no. In the back of the frame.
Frowning, Valeria carefully flipped the piece over. She hadn't noticed the unevenness before, but now, with the light hitting just right, she saw it. A seam. Subtle. Deliberate.
She reached for her scalpel and slowly cut along the edge. Dust rained down, followed by a folded envelope, brittle with age.
Her heart thumped.
She picked it up with trembling hands.
No return address. Just one word on the front. Faded but unmistakable:
"Vale."
Her nickname.
She hadn't heard anyone call her that in ten years. Not since—
She tore the envelope open, a tremor running through her chest.
A photograph slipped out first.
It was old. Black and white. A woman in a long coat stood on a beach, looking back at the camera, wind whipping her hair across her face. Valeria's breath caught.
It was her mother.
Beneath it, a note. Scrawled in her mother's familiar, slanted handwriting.
> "If you're reading this, then they never found me. Don't trust anyone, not even—"
The rest of the page was torn.
What the hell?
Valeria sat down heavily, the world tilting under her. Her mother had vanished without a trace when Valeria was seventeen. Police said probable drowning. No body. No clues. Just a bloodied scarf on the shore and the assumption that heartbreak had driven her into the waves after her father's body turned up days before.
But this note? Hidden inside a painting? Addressed to her?
It meant everything they told her was a lie.
Her skin prickled with goosebumps.
A loud knock shattered the silence.
She startled, dropping the envelope. It landed face-up, the name staring back at her like a warning.
Another knock. This time, firmer. Three sharp raps against the metal door.
She wasn't expecting anyone.
Valeria stood slowly, heart pounding, and crossed the studio. She peered through the peephole.
A delivery man stood outside, soaked from the rain. Tall, hat pulled low, holding a clipboard and a large flat package wrapped in brown paper.
She opened the door a crack.
"Yes?"
"Delivery for Miss Monroe." His voice was deep, polite. But there was something…off.
"I didn't order anything."
"Says here it was sent by DeLuca Holdings," he replied, lifting the clipboard.
Her pulse skipped.
She knew that name. Everyone did.
Rafael DeLuca. Billionaire. Enigma. King of tech. Too powerful. Too private. Too perfect-looking.
And absolutely not someone who should know her name.
The delivery man cleared his throat. "I need a signature."
Without thinking, Valeria scribbled her name and took the package.
"Have
The scent of old varnish and aging paint clung to the air as Valeria Monroe peeled the protective covering off the centuries-old canvas. The world outside her tiny art studio buzzed with tourists and late-night revelers, but inside these walls, time slowed. She liked it that way. Restoration was about precision and silence—two things she could control.
Her latex-gloved fingers moved with ease, revealing a striking oil portrait beneath layers of grime and neglect. She should've been focused. She usually was.
But tonight was different.
The painting had arrived anonymously, with no sender and no note—just a return address from an upscale auction house in Lisbon. The label simply read: "To be restored. Urgent." That alone was strange. The truly urgent restorations didn't come quietly.
She adjusted her lamp and gently tilted the frame. Something shifted inside. Not the canvas itself, but behind it.
Frowning, Valeria turned the piece over. A small tear in the lining revealed the edge of something—paper?
She grabbed her scalpel, careful not to damage the frame. Sliding it beneath the canvas backing, she pried it open. Her heart kicked up a notch as she pulled out a folded, yellowed envelope—crinkled at the corners, smeared with what looked like dried blood.
A name was scrawled on the front in shaky, smudged ink:
"Cassandra Monroe."
Her mother's name.
Valeria stared, breath caught in her chest. The envelope trembled in her hands.
Her mother had disappeared exactly ten years ago—no note, no body, just gone. The police ruled it a double homicide. Both her parents, dead. Valeria had accepted that grief. Buried it beneath years of therapy, silence, and pretending not to be angry at ghosts.
But now—this?
She paced backward, gripping the envelope so tightly it wrinkled in her palm.
She shouldn't open it. Not until she knew what it was.
But her body moved before logic caught up.
Inside was a single, water-damaged photograph. A woman—Cassandra—was sitting on a bench, looking over her shoulder, smiling. That wasn't the shocking part. The shocking part was the man beside her.
Young. Handsome. Cold eyes even through the film.
Rafael DeLuca.
Valeria recognized him immediately. Everyone in the city did.
Tech mogul. Billionaire. Host of tomorrow's art gala at the DeLuca Foundation.
And now… a man who knew her mother?
She flipped the photo. A date was scribbled on the back: April 14th, 2015. Three months before her parents disappeared.
A knock on the studio door made her flinch so hard the envelope slipped from her hand.
She froze.
It was 10:42 p.m.
No one should be here.
The knock came again. Harder.
She tiptoed toward the door, heart hammering, and peered through the peephole.
No one.
She waited.
Another knock—this time from the back door.
A cold chill raced up her spine.
She grabbed her phone and dialed 911—but stopped short of pressing call.
Was she being paranoid? Just shaken by the envelope?
She slowly walked to the back of the studio. There was a window facing the alley.
She peeked through.
A single figure in a hoodie stood facing the opposite wall, as if waiting.
Then he turned.
Her heart seized.
He looked up—straight at her.
And smiled.
Then he vanished into the shadows.
Valeria backed away, pulse racing.
This wasn't a coincidence. That envelope hadn't been lost. It had been planted.
And whoever did it… wanted her to see it.
---
By midnight, Valeria was in her apartment, doors locked, lights off. The envelope, photo, and painting were all stuffed in a bag she couldn't stop staring at.
She couldn't sleep. She couldn't even sit still. Her thoughts kept circling back to the same question:
Why would Rafael DeLuca be in a photograph with her mother before her disappearance?
The next morning, as the sun crept through her sheer curtains, her phone buzzed with a reminder:
DeLuca Foundation Gala — 7:00 PM. Dress Code: Formal.
She had planned to skip it. Crowds weren't her thing. But now…
She was going.
---
The gala was held in a glass-walled building on the edge of the bay, shimmering in the warm blush of sunset. Inside, the city's elite sipped champagne beneath suspended chandeliers while modern art installations spun and glowed.
Valeria stood near a massive sculpture of melted steel, her black satin dress clinging to her like armor. She shouldn't be here. She knew that. But she couldn't walk away now—not when she was this close to answers.
She turned—and locked eyes with him.
Rafael DeLuca.
Up close, he was even more striking. Tall, with sharp cheekbones, piercing dark eyes, and a confident calm that felt more dangerous than charming.
He smiled, slow and knowing.
"Valeria Monroe," he said, his voice like velvet and smoke. "I've been expecting you."
She blinked. "You know me?"
"I commissioned your studio," he said smoothly. "For the painting. Quite the talent you have."
Her mouth went dry.
He was the one who sent it?
"That piece… where did it come from?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
He looked at her for a moment too long. "Does it matter?"
"It had my mother's name inside it."
His expression didn't change. But his eyes… sharpened.
"Did it now?" he said softly. "How interesting."
Valeria's spine stiffened. "What do you know about her?"
He stepped closer, dropping his voice. "Enough to know you're in more danger than you think."
Before she could respond, someone bumped into her, and a tray of champagne glasses crashed to the floor beside them.
When she looked back up, Rafael was gone.
Like smoke.
Like a liar.
---
That night, back in her apartment, Valeria replayed the conversation over and over in her head.
Then her phone buzzed.
A message. Unknown number.
"He's lying. Just like Nico did."
Valeria's blood turned to ice.
Nico.
The man she had once loved. The man who vanished without a trace. The man presumed dead.
And now… someone was dragging his name into this?
She turned to the envelope again, staring at her mother's name, the photo, the bloodstain.
Everything she thought was buried… was crawling back to the surface.
And someone was pulling the strings.
Hard.
She walked into her bedroom and froze.
The door was ajar.
She hadn't left it that way.
She stepped in slowly.
Everything seemed normal—until she saw it.
Lying on her pillow, as if placed there with care:
Nico's old wristwatch.
The one he wore the day he disappeared.
Still ticking.
Still warm.
Like someone had just taken it off.