I am Ava Monroe, wife of Chicago's infamous kingpin, Cillian Vance—and the shield he chose for the woman he truly loves.

In the third year of our marriage, I was attacked by his enemies for the eighth time. When Cillian and his men arrived to "rescue" me, negotiations had been going for less than five minutes when Scarlett's call came through.

"Cilli, I slipped on the yacht! My knee is killing me... Please, can you come? I need you right now."

…

The moment Cillian turned to leave without a second thought, a truck slammed into my car. Shards of glass pierced my abdomen, blood gushing out. His bodyguards handled it just like the previous seven times—they paid off the police and sent me to the hospital.

In the ambulance, I overheard one of them wondering aloud if I’d even last long enough to see Scarlett dump Cillian. They all burst out laughing. I was the only one crying.

My mission to save the kingpin had failed. And I was about to be erased by the System.

Cillian, I won't live to see that day.

————————

1

A long sigh echoed in my ear. It was the doctor. "Mrs. Vance, your last miscarriage already damaged your uterine lining. After suffering this kind of trauma again... I'm afraid you won't be able to conceive."

I stared at the white chandelier overhead, my own voice sounding distant. "I understand. It's fine."

After the doctor left, the System’s familiar, monotone voice filled the silence. "Mission failed. Erasure protocol will be initiated. Do you wish to restart the mission—to continue trying to save him?"

I slowly shook my head. "Erase me."

"Command confirmed. Erasure protocol initiated. You have 72 hours remaining."

...

I closed my eyes, the silence in the room suffocating. But a strange, masochistic impulse drove me to open Scarlett Reed's Instagram live stream.

That day, she was filming a makeup tutorial in the Chicago penthouse Cillian had bought for her, sitting before a massive mirror. The girl wore a man's custom shirt that was clearly two sizes too big, her hair thrown into a messy bun as she fiddled with a set of professional makeup brushes. Her cheeks held a healthy, rosy glow, and her smile was devastatingly sweet.

"This shirt? Oh, it's my boyfriend's. Custom Armani. I couldn't wear any of my own clothes because last night... well, things got a little too passionate." She glanced shyly at someone just off-camera. "I never thought my first kiss and… well, my first everything would happen on the same night…"

A man's deep, magnetic voice drifted from off-camera. "Sorry, baby. I'll be gentler next time."

The live stream's comment section exploded.

'Scarlett finally got her mystery man! Share more couple content!'

"That might be a little difficult. My boyfriend's work is… sensitive. It’s not really convenient for him to be on camera."

As she spoke, her sleeve brushed against a palette of foundation. Scarlett let out a small gasp, and then a long, strong male arm reached into the frame, carefully rolling up her sleeve. A million-dollar pink diamond ring glittered on her finger. "Doesn't matter if it gets dirty. I'll have someone send you a new one."

Her face flushed an even deeper red. She giggled, then was suddenly pulled out of the frame. The distinct sounds of kissing and breathless laughter followed from off-screen.

Among the scrolling comments, one caught my eye—'I swear I just heard Cillian Vance's voice.'

The man's voice sounded again, much colder this time. "Boring."

The live stream abruptly ended. I set down my phone and drifted back into a hazy, drugged sleep.

In my dream, I was tidying his study and accidentally got a speck of dust on a handmade, ten-thousand-dollar Italian suit. I apologized immediately, but he flew into a rage, snarling that I had no right to touch his things. He threw the suit out like garbage. From that day forward, I never saw another one of his personal belongings in our home.

At the end of the dream, all I could see was Cillian's back—the same view I’d had countless times over the past three years, as I lay in agony and he rushed off to be with Scarlett.

When I woke again, half-conscious, the first thing I saw was a pink diamond ring, glittering faintly in the dim light of the hospital room. My gaze traveled up. Scarlett, now in a simple Chanel suit, was elegantly sipping soup from an exquisite thermal container.

My assistant stood beside her, her expression pained. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Vance. The private chef only prepared one serving of soup. Miss Reed saw it and… well, she said she wanted to try some."

"Oh, my gosh, I didn't know this was yours. I'm so sorry, Ava." Scarlett’s amber eyes widened, her long lashes fluttering as a sheen of tears welled up—as if she’d only just now realized she was stealing soup from a critically injured woman.

When Cillian pushed open the door to my room, the first thing he saw was Scarlett, hands clasped, apologizing profusely.

"What is it now, Ava?! Scarlett flew all the way from Los Angeles just to see you!" he snapped.

The assistant, looking panicked, started to explain, but Scarlett cut in first, her voice soft and trembling. "Cillian, don't blame her. It's all my fault. The soup just smelled so good, I couldn't resist. I only meant to have a little taste, but before I knew it, I'd finished the whole thing. Ava has every right to be angry..."

Tears welled in her eyes. Cillian's anger instantly melted, replaced by an endless tenderness. "It's just soup. You can have the chef make you gallons of it once you're discharged. Why are you giving Scarlett a hard time over something so trivial?"

He turned to the assistant, his glare ice-cold. "Scarlett hasn't had much of an appetite lately. Since she likes the taste of this, have the chef go back and make another pot. Send it directly to her villa in Los Angeles."

The assistant nodded quickly and scurried out.

Cillian's expression softened again. He leaned down and gently brushed a tear from Scarlett's cheek with his thumb. "Don't cry. Your eyes will get puffy, and you won't look as beautiful."

Scarlett's tears turned to laughter as she threw herself into his arms. "You always tease me."

They left the room together, their whispers and laughter fading down the hallway until it fell silent again. It was only then that I realized it: the misunderstandings, the scoldings, the humiliations that had once shattered my heart—they no longer stirred a single ripple within me. I didn't want to argue. I didn't want to cry. I didn't even want to explain.

...

An hour later, as a doctor was checking my wounds, several of Cillian's bodyguards swaggered into the room, urging me to get discharged as soon as possible. Enemy forces, they said, were still on the move.

One of them, maybe out of pity, asked if I needed extra painkillers. I shook my head. "No, thank you." This kind of pain was an old friend. I was used to it.

They drove me back to the penthouse, dropped me at the entrance, thrust a bag of medication into my hands, and sped off. Cillian couldn't care less about me, so to his men, I was invisible. In their eyes, I was nothing.

I pushed open the door to find the vast apartment completely empty. Even the usual cleaning staff were gone. Then, Cillian's call came through, his voice as cold and distant as ever. "Scarlett is feeling unwell. Your assistant and chef are more meticulous, so I sent them and the other staff to Los Angeles to take care of her. You'll be on your own for a few days. They'll be back once she's recovered."

He said it so casually, as if she were the one who had been seriously injured, who had nearly died in a wreck, not me.

"I understand."

He paused, a flicker of something in his tone. "If there's anything you want to eat, make a list. The chef can make it when he gets back."

"I understand."

I could feel him frowning through the phone.

"What is this attitude? Over a bowl of soup! Don't you forget, Ava Monroe—I told you the day we married that you are nothing but a shield for Scarlett. Don't think three years as Mrs. Vance gives you the right to act like you're more important than her."

I nodded to myself. "I know."

"You—" His anger flared, but before he could finish, Scarlett's lilting voice drifted from nearby. "Cilli, the bath is ready!"

The call disconnected.

Forty-eight hours until my erasure.

I felt a pang of hunger, but when I walked into the kitchen, the refrigerator was completely empty—stripped of all ingredients. Because of Cillian's sensitive identity, he never allowed me to order takeout. I rummaged through the cabinets and found only a box of expired instant pasta.

The water from the tap wouldn't get hot, so I had to soak the pasta in lukewarm water before carrying the sad bowl to the dining table.

My phone buzzed—a push notification from a gossip magazine. The cover photo showed Scarlett at a ski resort in Aspen, dressed in a bright pink ski suit, embracing a tall man. The man's face was deliberately blurred, but the broad shoulders and lean frame were unmistakably Cillian's.

The headline screamed: "Mystery Girl's Ski Getaway! Millionaire Boyfriend Rents Entire Resort for Love!"

In the photo, Scarlett gazed up at the man with a sweet smile, while he gently adjusted her scarf.

'They look so sweet. It's like a fairy tale.'

'This girl is so lucky! Her boyfriend is so obviously in love with her!'

I expressionlessly ate my bowl of barely edible, lukewarm pasta.

Just as I finished half the box of instant pasta, a clearer photo went viral on social media. It showed Cillian and Scarlett walking out of Aspen's most expensive five-star hotel, Scarlett clinging to his arm, the picture of intimacy.

A few minutes later, Scarlett posted an update on Instagram: a teary-eyed selfie. "Feeling like I'm being followed. So scared... Can anyone tell me what's happening? I just want a quiet vacation with the person I love."

Less than ten minutes later, my phone rang. Cillian's voice roared on the other end: "Ava Monroe, what the hell are you trying to pull? Did you hire a private investigator to follow us? Did you leak our location to the media?"

"I didn't—"

"Still lying?!" His voice was sharp with fury. "Who else would pull a stunt like this? You're jealous of Scarlett, so you're trying to ruin this for her! Do you think this will make me come running back to you? How pathetic."

I remembered a night last winter. I was still weak from a miscarriage and couldn't accompany him to an important business party. Cillian had flown into a rage, accusing me of being unsupportive. He forced me, weak as I was, to apologize to each of his business partners one by one, until I finally fainted in the middle of the ballroom.

"Cillian, I really didn't—"

"Ava Monroe, you'd better back the hell off!" he raged. "Scarlett is terrified because of you. Don't test my limits again!"

Scarlett's trembling voice cut in. "Cilli, I feel like... there's someone watching me from outside. I'm so scared..."

The call was immediately disconnected. I sat motionless at the table, staring at nothing.

Sure enough, ten minutes later, Cillian's bodyguards broke down my door. Without a word, they grabbed me and hauled me to my feet like a sack of potatoes. "Let's go. The boss wants you at a restaurant to act as a decoy for Miss Reed."

...

The high-end restaurant had a massive, floor-to-ceiling window. They sat me at the most conspicuous table by the glass and slapped a menu down in front of me. On the other side of the restaurant, in the safest private room, Cillian was gently holding Scarlett. "Don't be afraid," he whispered. "I'm here. I'll protect you."

She curled into his chest, her slender fingers clutching the lapels of his expensive Brioni suit. "Cillian, are they... are they going to kill me? I'm so scared. I don't want to die..."

"They wouldn't dare," he murmured, stroking her long hair. "You're safe here. I promise."

Her crying slowly subsided into soft sobs. "Cillian, what would I do without you?"

"Don't be silly. You'll always have me. I'll be with you until we're old and gray."

The sound of their kissing filled the private room—soft, wet, lingering. No matter how hard I tried to focus on the menu, every sound reached my ears. This went on for nearly an hour, only stopping when a waiter came to ask if they were ready to order.

Then, Scarlett's saccharine voice piped up. "Cillian, Ava is still sitting out there. She's your wife, after all. Maybe you should have someone protect her, too."

Cillian shot a cold glance in my direction. "If she hadn't hired someone to follow us and leak our location, you wouldn't be in this situation. She brought this on herself."

I tried to keep reading the menu, but the words blurred. I thought I had no tears left to cry, but new ones were already falling. I didn't understand why, and I didn't want to.

I don't know when I fell asleep. When I woke up, a fog of pain and exhaustion made everything slow and hazy. The System's voice echoed faintly in my ear: "24 hours remaining."

But before I could move, a sharp slap from Cillian struck my face. "Ava Monroe, how could you be so vicious? Sneaking in to kidnap Scarlett while I was asleep?!"

I sat up too quickly, and a sharp pain lanced through my abdomen, stealing my breath. "Ah—"

"Stop playing the victim," he snarled. "Where is Scarlett?"

Only then did I realize I was somehow in their hotel suite. I didn't even remember how I'd gotten there, but Scarlett was, indeed, gone.

"I don't know. I was at the restaurant all night—"

"Liar! Where did you send her?"