I shoved my arms into a dark sweater and pulled on a pair of jeans. Catching my reflection in the vanity mirror, I froze.

My shirt slipped off one shoulder. The jagged scar across my collarbone stared back at me. Below it, the burn marks on my ribs formed an ugly map of my loyalty. I twisted slightly, catching sight of the pale, raised lines crisscrossing my back.

Five years. Twenty hospital visits.

Every time a rival cartel wanted to cripple Mike, they came for me. They tied me to chairs, beat me, and left me for dead. And every single time, I fought to keep breathing. I swallowed the agony because I thought my husband's heart would break if I died.

"I'm so sorry, baby," Mike's voice echoed in my memory. He used to sit by my hospital bed, his eyes red and wet. He would press his lips to my bruised knuckles, his hands shaking. "I'll make them pay. I swear it. Nobody touches my queen."

Then came the gifts. The emerald necklaces. The limited-edition sports cars. The extravagant apologies wrapped in velvet boxes.

"I have to go handle the fallout," he would tell me, slipping his hand out of mine while the IV dripped into my arm. "I'll be back as soon as it's safe. Just rest."

I gripped the edge of the vanity, my knuckles turning white.

"You didn't go handle the fallout," I whispered to the empty room. "You went to her."

A violent shiver racked my spine. He left me in intensive care to hold Sophia's hand. He used my broken body to keep the target off her back. While I was screaming through physical therapy, he was probably buying her dinner.

I turned away from the mirror. I didn't believe in love anymore. It was just a weapon people used to keep you in line. And I had been the perfect, gullible soldier.

I stepped into the hallway. The front door was straight ahead, but I pivoted right.

Mike's study sat at the end of the corridor. I never went in there. He called it his sanctuary, claiming the stress of his business was too dark for me. I pushed the heavy mahogany door open. It wasn't locked. He didn't think I was smart enough to snoop.

I moved behind his massive oak desk. I needed my passport, maybe some cash from the safe. I yanked the top drawer open.

No passport. Just a thick, black leather folder.

"What are you hiding?" I muttered, flipping it open.

Boarding passes. Hotel receipts. Private jet manifests.

I traced my finger down the dates, my stomach twisting into tight knots.

"October 14th. " The night I took a bullet to the shoulder in downtown Chicago. Mike flew to Paris.

"February 2nd. " The week the Moretti family held me hostage in a warehouse. Mike booked a luxury suite in Aspen.

"August 19th. " My third heart surgery. Mike charted a yacht in the Mediterranean.

"Two passengers," I read aloud, my voice trembling. "Michael Rossi and Sophia Rossi."

He gave her his last name for the hotel bookings. He played house with her while I bled on concrete floors.

Suddenly, the screen of the tablet on his desk flared to life. A notification chimed, loud in the silent room.

I dropped the folder and picked up the device. It was logged into a fake Instagram account Mike used to monitor his rivals. But the notification wasn't from an enemy. It was a new post from Sophia's private page.

A photo loaded on the bright screen.

Mike's face, clear as day, pressing a passionate kiss against a blonde woman's cheek. She was smiling, holding up a bandaged finger with a tiny spot of blood.

The caption read: "My protector. He leaves his empire just to kiss my boo-boos. Forever mine. "

A strange sound ripped from my throat. It wasn't a sob. It was a laugh. A sharp, ugly, broken laugh.

My knees gave out. I hit the hardwood floor hard, the tablet slipping from my fingers and clattering beside me.

The scars on my back throbbed. The phantom pain of a dozen different weapons flared up all at once. Every cut, every bruise, every broken bone screamed at me. I curled my hands into fists, driving my nails into my palms to ground myself.

"I want to leave," I said.

If this is all a lie, I will never give my heart away again. If Sophia's life is so precious, then my life deserves to be protected as well.

This time, I won't sacrifice myself for love; I want to live for myself.

The dawn light was a sickly, bruised purple when I finished. I didn't touch the emeralds on the vanity or the designer gowns that cost more than a doctor's salary. I packed a single worn duffel bag with cotton shirts and jeans—things I'd bought before Mike Rossi turned me into a human target.

The house felt like a tomb.

"Leaving so early, ma'am?" the gate guard asked, his brow furrowing as he leaned toward my taxi window.

"I have an early appointment," I said, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands. "Don't wake Mike. He had a long night."

The guard nodded, stepping back. "Safe travels."

The taxi pulled away, the tires crunching over the gravel. I watched the mansion shrink in the rearview mirror, waiting for a sense of relief that didn't come. My heart felt like a lead weight in my chest, every beat a reminder of the scars Mike had gifted me.

We were three miles out, passing through a desolate stretch of industrial road, when a black van swerved sharply across the lane.

"Hey! What the hell?" the driver yelled, slamming on the brakes.

I gripped the door handle. "Don't stop. Drive around them!"

"I can't! There's another one behind us!"

Two more vans boxed us in. Men in tactical gear blurred past the windows. The taxi driver didn't even have time to scream before the glass shattered.

"Get out! Now!" a masked man barked, dragging the driver onto the asphalt.

I reached for the handgun Dante had given me, but a hand clamped over my wrist. The door was ripped open.

"Elaine Rossi," a voice growled. "The King's favorite shield."

"Go to hell," I snapped, lunging for his eyes.

He caught my throat, pinning me against the seat. I saw a flash of silver—a needle.

"Sleep tight, Queenie."

The sting in my neck was sharp. A cold wave rushed through my veins, turning my limbs to water. The world smeared into a blur of gray and black. My duffel bag hit the pavement.

"Not like this, " I thought, the darkness swallowing me whole. "I wasn't supposed to die as his shield. "

The smell of salt and diesel fuel brought me back.

I tried to move my hands, but the rough bite of hemp rope cut into my wrists. My ankles were fused together with duct tape. I opened my eyes, squinting against the harsh glare of the morning sun reflecting off the ocean.

I was on the deck of a rusting freighter. The wood beneath me was damp and smelled of rot.

"Finally awake?"

I turned my head. A man stood near the railing, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He looked down at me with a jagged, predatory grin.

"Who are you?" I croaked.

"A man with a grievance," he said, gesturing toward the woman sitting five feet away from me. "And a man with two very different prizes."

I followed his gaze. My breath hitched, but not from fear.

Sophia.

She was tied to a chair, her blonde hair matted with sweat, her face streaked with mascara. She looked small. Fragile. Exactly the way Mike liked her.

"Elaine?" Sophia whimpered, her blue eyes wide with terror. "Oh god, Elaine, what's happening? Who are these people?"

"Shut up, Sophia," I said, the coldness in my voice surprising even me.

"Don't be mean!" she wailed. "They said they're going to kill us! They said Mike has to choose!"

The man laughed, checking his watch. "Speak of the devil. Right on time."

A sleek, high-speed yacht roared across the water, cutting a white scar through the blue. I recognized the engine's growl immediately. It was Mike's pride and joy.

As the yacht pulled alongside the freighter, I saw him.

Mike stood at the bow, his face a mask of controlled fury. Gabe was behind him, holding a rifle, but Mike's eyes were fixed on the deck. He looked at Sophia. Then, briefly, his gaze flickered to me. There was no relief in his expression. Only a simmering, impatient heat.

"Let them go, Vargos!" Mike shouted over the engine. "You want the shipment? You want the territory? It's yours. Just step away from the women."

Vargos, the man with the cigarette, grabbed Sophia by the hair, tilting her head back. She let out a piercing shriek.

"I don't want the territory, Mike," Vargos yelled back. "I want to see you bleed. And I know you only have one heart."

He pulled a pistol and pointed it at the center of my forehead. Then, he swung it toward Sophia's chest.

"One choice, Rossi!" Vargos shouted. "The freighter is rigged with a timer. In sixty seconds, the hold blows. I'm leaving on the skiff. You can grab one. Only one. The other goes down with the ship."

"Mike!" Sophia screamed, her voice breaking. "Mike, please! I'm scared! Don't let them hurt me!"

I stayed silent. I looked at Mike, searching for a shred of the man who had held me while I recovered from a stabbing. I looked for the man who had promised to grow old with me.

Mike's jaw tightened. His hands gripped the railing of his yacht so hard the metal groaned. He looked at me, and for a second, I saw the calculation in his eyes. He wasn't looking at his wife. He was looking at a piece of equipment that had finally worn out.

"Mike," I whispered, though he couldn't hear me.

He didn't look at me again. He turned his head toward Sophia.

"Give me Sophia," Mike called out, his voice ringing across the water like a death knell.

The world stopped.

Vargos grinned, showing yellow teeth. "The mistress over the wife? Cold, Mike. Real cold."

"Sophia," Mike repeated, his tone turning to ice. "Throw her over. Now."

"What about Elaine?" Gabe's voice rose in the background, sounding horrified. "Boss, we can get both, we just need to—"

"I said Sophia!" Mike roared, silencing his assistant.

Vargos sliced the ropes holding Sophia to the chair. He hauled her up and shoved her toward the edge of the deck.

"Go to your King, little bird," Vargos mocked.

Sophia didn't look back at me. She didn't offer a word of pity. She scrambled toward the railing, reaching out for the hands Mike's men extended to pull her onto the yacht.

I sat on the deck, my hands tied behind my back, watching my husband catch Sophia in his arms. He wrapped his jacket around her shoulders, shielding her from the wind. He held her against his chest, whispering something into her ear that made her sob with relief.

Then, Mike turned his head.

He looked at me as the yacht's engine began to rev. There was no apology in his eyes. No regret. Just the flat, empty stare of a man discarding a used-up tool.

"Mike!" I screamed, the sound tearing from my lungs. "I gave you five years! I took the bullets for you!"

He didn't answer. He signaled to the captain.

The yacht began to peel away, the distance between us growing with every second.

"Thirty seconds, Queenie," Vargos said, stepping toward the small motorboat tied to the other side of the freighter. "Hope you can swim with your hands tied."

I looked at the retreating yacht. I looked at the man I had nearly died for a dozen times, watching him walk Sophia into the cabin without a backward glance.

The despair hit me first, a crushing weight that made it hard to breathe. But as the yacht became a speck on the horizon, the despair curdled. It sharpened. It turned into a white-hot flame that burned away the last of the medication in my system.

I wasn't a shield anymore.

A ticking sound started beneath the floorboards. High-pitched. Fast.

I looked at the water. I looked at my bound wrists.

"I'm going to kill you, Mike Rossi," I whispered to the empty air. "I'm going to burn everything you love."

The freighter groaned as the first small explosion rocked the hull.

The deck tilted. The water rushed up to meet me.

I took a deep breath and rolled toward the edge.

The explosion roared, a wall of orange flame erupting from the center of the ship, and the freezing Atlantic swallowed me whole.