Chapter 16 – The Echo of Her Name
Valentina Cruz
If passion was fire, then doubt was ice.
And waking up in Rafael's bed the morning after that kiss felt like being caught between both — seared and frozen.
He wasn't there when I opened my eyes.
Only the smell of espresso lingered, and the echo of what we'd done — or started to do — was painted across the sheets.
I wrapped myself in one of his shirts and went searching.
I found him in the garden.
Not brooding.
Not training.
But smiling.
At her.
⸻
She was tall. Blonde. Stunning in that terrifying runway-model-meets-assassin way.
Her black boots crunched against the gravel as she leaned into Rafael's space like she owned it — like she used to.
I paused behind the hedge like a stalker in a telenovela.
"What are you doing here, Celia?" Rafael asked, voice cold but not cutting.
Celia.
Even her name sounded like the clink of a wine glass before betrayal.
"I heard about Marco. And the ambush." Her voice was silk-wrapped poison. "I came to check on you."
He raised a brow. "You never check on people unless they're bleeding money or secrets."
She smiled. "Or unless I miss them."
Something twisted in my stomach — not quite jealousy.
No, this was older. Uglier.
Like every pretty girl from every high school hallway had walked into my life and whispered, "You'll never be her."
⸻
I stepped into view before I could stop myself.
Rafael saw me first. His eyes softened — just a flicker, but enough.
Celia's lips curved.
"You must be the wife," she said, like wife was a charity title.
"I must be," I said, giving her a smile that was all teeth.
She looked me up and down, taking in the oversized shirt, bare legs, and bruised collarbone.
So I did the same to her — from designer boots to the smug tilt of her head.
"You're cute," she added. "In that rescue-puppy kind of way."
"And you're beautiful," I said sweetly. "In that scorpion-wearing-a-dress kind of way."
Rafael choked on his coffee.
⸻
After she left — with a wink and a warning — I turned to Rafael.
"How many exes do I need to keep a gun loaded for?"
"Just her."
"She doesn't seem like an ex."
"She is."
"Sure. And I'm the Queen of England."
He sighed. "Valentina—"
"Forget it," I snapped. "You don't owe me anything. We're just a business deal, remember?"
He grabbed my wrist before I could storm off. "It's not like that."
"Then what is it?"
A pause.
Then softly, "I don't know."
And maybe that hurt worse than if he'd said nothing at all.
⸻
Later that night, I sat in the bathtub, staring at the tiles.
I wanted to cry.
But crying felt like giving her power.
So I plotted instead.
I wouldn't be some wounded puppy she could laugh at.
I'd become the damn wolf.