The Winner of the Don's Selection

A decree from the Don of the Thorne Group sent a tremor through Chicago—he was choosing a wife.

The Don was known for his ruthlessness. So, my foster mother replaced my sister Camilla's name with mine.

Her words were not a request.

"Aveline, your sister is too delicate. She won't survive the selection. You will go in her place."

She grabbed my hand, tears sliding down her cheeks with perfect timing.

"When it's over, Marco will come and get you. I swear it on your father's name."

In my last life, I believed that oath.

I went to the Thorne Group's headquarters, only to be singled out and humiliated by the Don himself.

I barely escaped his territory alive and spent two years in exile, finally shaking off his pursuers.

When I returned to Chicago—branded a traitor to the family—I arrived just in time for Camilla's engagement party.

My foster mother stood at the center of the festivities, her gaze sweeping right past me as if I were thin air.

"Traitor. There is no place for you here."

Cast out a second time, my spirit broken, I died alone in the crossfire of a street shootout.

When I regained consciousness, I was standing in the same luxurious living room. My foster mother wore the same calculated expression as she watched me.

"Aveline, are you willing to take Camilla's place in the selection?"

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1

Her words were met with a dead silence.

I let my gaze drop, concealing the cold glint in my eyes before I answered slowly.

"Alright."

That single word made everyone in the living room freeze.

She clearly hadn't expected me to agree so easily. The rest of her prepared speech died in her throat.

Beside her, Marco’s eyes narrowed, his expression hardening with suspicion.

"You've been refusing for days. Why the sudden change of heart?"

I lifted my head, my voice deceptively soft.

"Mother has already decided. I'll go."

The tension instantly drained from her face.

She seized my hand—her fingertips were icy, her grip like iron.

"Aveline, I knew you were the most sensible one. Once the selection is over, Marco will bring you home. I won't go back on my word."

I sneered internally, my face a placid mask.

In my last life, it was that "sensibility" that had gotten me killed on the streets.

Everyone knew that Killian, the Don of the Thorne Group, was a cold man. To trick me into being Camilla's shield, my foster mother had lied without hesitation.

She told me that Killian despised weakness the most—that if I acted helpless, I would be eliminated quickly.

I obediently hid all my strengths. But Killian dragged me out, mocking and humiliating me for his own sick amusement.

I fled in disgrace and was hunted for two years.

I couldn't afford to stop, surviving on shady jobs from the black market, always evading my pursuers until I finally shook the Thorne Group’s men.

Afterward, I stayed away for two more years, afraid my return would endanger the family, before daring to go back.

But what awaited me was not a warm embrace.

It was Camilla's lavish engagement party.

Camilla stood beside her fiancé, bathed in everyone's blessings.

And my foster mother stood in the center of the crowd. When she saw me, her eyes were like those of a stranger—cold and distant.

"You're a traitor to this family. There's no place for you here."

In that moment, I finally understood.

She had never intended for me to come back.

My will to live shattered. A few days later, in despair, I died alone under the gunfire on the street.

The memory of death’s cold embrace was a chilling reminder. I looked at her eager face and spoke.

"I have one condition."

She blinked.

"What is it?"

"The downtown nightclub and the stock portfolio my father left me—I want full control of both before I go."

A heavy silence fell over the living room.

She immediately frowned.