The Kiss Before the Gunshot
The lights flickered, as if the house itself sensed they were in danger.
The red alarm was still flashing, but the basement seemed to swallow the sound, drowning it in dampness and fear.
Helena was breathing heavily.
Julian still held her file in his hands.
Her name. Her photo. Her life, marked as merchandise.
"I'm not who you think I am," Helena murmured, on the verge of breaking.
"No," Julian said, letting the file fall. "You're so much more than I ever imagined. More than he ever deserved to control."
She looked at him, surprised.
And then Julian did something she didn't expect.
He kissed her.
With anger. With tenderness. With desperation.
A kiss that tasted like suppressed fury and pent-up desire.
A kiss that didn't ask for answers, but screamed: "despite everything, I'm still here."
Helena responded as if that kiss were her only salvation.
Her hands clung to him.
Her lips spoke what her words could not.
For a moment, there was no basement, no file, no alarms.
Only them.
"We're getting out of here," Julian said, his forehead against hers. "And after that… you'll tell me what's not in the files."
⸻
The back hallway led them to a hidden exit between bushes.
They didn't run. They knew running would draw more attention.
They moved in silence, as if the past were watching.
But Helena suddenly stopped.
The wind brought a familiar smell.
Cheap cigarettes. A woman's perfume.
And a voice.
"I knew you'd come back, Lucía."
⸻
The moment she heard her name, a memory pierced her mind…
A white hallway. A mirror without a reflection.
Lucía Montenegro looked at the opaque glass as a man adjusted a microphone under her dress.
"Remember your role," he said. "You're a debutante. Insecure. On the brink of falling in love. Leave the rest to me."
Lucía nodded.
That night, she was supposed to approach Arturo Santamaría's son. Observe him. Classify him.
Evaluate whether he was willing to join the business or if he'd be a liability.
"What if he doesn't cooperate?" she asked.
The man, a nameless operator, smiled humorlessly.
"Then he becomes an acceptable loss. Like his mother."
Helena froze.
That was the first moment she suspected—
That Arturo Santamaría had killed his own wife.
⸻
That same night, at a fake engagement party, everything changed.
Julian saw her.
And the operation became unstable.
"Who is she?" he asked his father, ignoring everyone else. "I want to know everything."
Lucía should have fled.
But she didn't.
Because for the first time, someone looked at her—without conditions.
And that made her dangerous.
⸻
Back in the present, a little disoriented, Helena finally snapped to attention.
"You were part of the plan," said the woman in the shadows, gun in hand. "But you went off script, sweetheart."
Helena recognized her.
Lauren.
Nathaniel's supposed distant cousin.
Always nearby, always listening… and working, in reality, for Julian's father.
"You were his spy," Helena said through clenched lips. "You pretended to be family to keep watch on me."
Lauren laughed.
"And you pretended to fall in love with his son. Who played the part better, darling?"
"I didn't pretend."
"Oh? What a shame. You're going to lose him anyway."
Lauren pointed the gun at Julian.
"He doesn't know you helped make Evelyn disappear, does he? That you gave up information. That you knew everything."
Julian turned to Helena.
"Who's Evelyn?"
"Don't listen," she said quickly. "She's trying to divide us."
"Is it working or not?"
Helena shut her eyes.
"I had no choice. Not at the beginning."
Lauren smiled like a satisfied viper.
"The problem with shadows like you, Helena, is that you always think you can choose when to stop killing."
Helena stepped forward.
"Touch me… and I'll kill you before you can breathe."
The tension reignited.
And this time, the shot did come.
But not from Lauren's gun.
From the forest.
A bullet. A scream. A fall.
And silence, once more.