I Am The Ghost He Remembers

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.