Becoming Mrs DeLuca novel Chapter 80

**Through Shadows We Painted Our Forever**
by Erynn Vel Coren

**VALENTINA**

“Who are you?”

The question erupted from my lips before I even grasped the gravity of my own words. It sliced through the heavy silence of the room, sharp and filled with an urgency I couldn’t suppress.

Initially, the woman remained motionless, her back still turned to me. The subtle rise and fall of her shoulders was the only indication that she was indeed alive. My fingers quivered as they hovered over the light switch, desperate to illuminate the darkness that enveloped us. My heartbeat thundered in my ears, a frantic drum echoing in the otherwise quiet kitchen.

“Who are you?” I demanded again, this time raising my voice, my fear morphing into a fierce determination. I was trembling, but I took a cautious step toward the edge of the counter, my eyes scanning for something—anything—that could serve as a weapon. My gaze landed on a whisk. Yes, a whisk. I was fully aware of how ludicrous that sounded. I was about to defend myself against an intruder with nothing more than a kitchen utensil. But it was the only option within my reach.

“I’m going to call the cops!” I shouted, my voice rising in pitch. “Who are you, and how did you get in here?”

The woman remained still for a moment longer, and I could almost feel the tension radiating from her, as if she were grappling with the reality of being discovered. Slowly, she turned her head, and in that instant, the world around me seemed to contract to focus solely on her. The way her dark hair cascaded over her shoulder, the delicate curve of her cheek coming into view—it was mesmerizing. And then our eyes locked, and an icy wave of recognition washed over me, draining the color from my face.

Serena DeLuca.

That face was etched into my memory. I had seen it in countless photographs tucked away in drawers, in framed portraits that Adrian had painstakingly removed from the hallway upstairs, hiding them in boxes in the library. The high cheekbones, the gentle curve of her mouth, and those same haunting eyes that Stefan and Sofia had inherited.

But this was not a photograph.

This was her—alive, breathing, and standing right in front of me.

My voice faltered, caught in my throat like a fish out of water. I stumbled back a step, my hand gripping the counter behind me for support as I gasped, “You— you’re dead.”

Her expression shifted, a flicker of vulnerability crossing her features. “Please,” she murmured, her voice soft yet hoarse, as if she hadn’t spoken in ages. “Please don’t scream again.”

I blinked, my mind racing in circles, unable to comprehend the impossibility of the situation. “This isn’t—this can’t be real.”

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Serena said, her movements slow and deliberate as she raised her palms, a gesture of peace. She looked more fragile than I remembered from the photos, her skin almost translucent under the harsh kitchen lights. “You’re Valentina, right?”

I could only nod, my throat constricted with disbelief.

A faint, trembling smile broke across her lips. “I’ve heard about you… Valentina. I’ve seen you, actually… you’re… you’re good with the children.”

The room tilted dangerously as I reached for the counter again, my knees feeling weak beneath me. “No,” I whispered, shaking my head vehemently as if trying to dispel an illusion. “No, this isn’t—you’re not real.”

“I am,” she insisted, her voice steady as she reached out, as if daring me to touch her. “I’m as real as you.”

“You died.” The words burst from me in frantic gasps. “You died. Adrian said that you died. I… I must be dreaming.”

My mind was a whirlwind of confusion. I pinched my arm hard, hoping to jolt myself awake, but all I achieved was a sharp pain and a blossoming bruise on my skin.

Serena’s expression tightened at the mention of Adrian. “He told you that?”

“He—he said there was an accident. He said you—you’re dead, Serena. You’re playing games with me.”

A short, humorless laugh escaped her, sounding more like a sob than anything else. “Of course he did.”

I took another cautious step back, the reality of the situation weighing heavily on me. “What are you doing here? How are you here?”

Her gaze flickered toward the hallway, then up to the ceiling, as if she were listening for something. “Please,” she whispered, inching closer, her voice laced with urgency. “You can’t tell him that you saw me.”

“What?” I stammered, bewildered.

“Promise me,” she pressed, reaching for my hand, her voice trembling with desperation.

I gasped as her cool skin made contact with mine. She was alive. She was real. She was touching me.

“Promise me you won’t say a word to Adrian.”

My mind raced, struggling to process her request. “You want me to lie to my husband about his dead wife sitting in our kitchen?”

Serena flinched at my words, glancing nervously toward the door. “Please,” she urged. “I’ll explain everything. Just not here. He can’t know you’ve seen me. He can never know, Valentina.”

I shook my head, frustration boiling inside me. “You need to tell me what’s going on.”

“I will,” she replied quickly, her eyes wide with pleading. “But not now. Not tonight. Tomorrow… Tomorrow, come upstairs. To my room.”

“Your room?” I echoed, disbelief flooding my voice.

The words echoed in my mind, a relentless mantra that refused to fade. She’s alive. Serena is alive.

I pressed a trembling hand to my mouth, a small, broken sound escaping my throat.

Stefan.

The memory crashed over me like a wave. The way he had whispered that his mother came to visit him at night, the way I had gently dismissed his claims, telling him that grief could play tricks on the mind.

Oh God.

He hadn’t been lying.

He hadn’t been imagining things.

I curled my knees to my chest, shaking as I fought to steady my breath.

Upstairs, somewhere above me, a door creaked, the sound slicing through the heavy air.

I looked up at the ceiling, my heart lodged in my throat. The faintest echo of footsteps drifted down from the third floor.

She was really up there. She had been up there all this time. What kind of horror movie had I unwittingly stepped into?

I didn’t move. I sat there, paralyzed in the dim kitchen, waiting for the sound to cease.

When it finally did, the silence felt even more oppressive.

The refrigerator hummed softly behind me, a mundane reminder of normalcy. Milo padded in from the hallway, sniffing the air before whining and pressing her nose against my arm.

I buried my face in her fur, clutching her as if she were a lifeline in a stormy sea.

“I saw her, Milo,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “I saw her. She’s real.”

My voice cracked on the last word, the weight of the revelation crashing down on me.

Serena DeLuca was alive. And she was upstairs.