ltash

[ltash]

Operation Esclipse

Ch-11 "Firestorm"

Ghost'COD'xMI6xFem'OC'reader

“Every fire begins with a spark—and ends with something turned to ash.”

The calm after the raid on the Kashmir drone base was deceptive, fragile, like the silence between thunderclaps.

Inside the MI6 forward command tent nestled in the lower valleys, Ethan pored over the recovered drone schematics while Zohra traced the missing connections in the Phoenix Protocol's architecture. Ghost stood near the canvas flap, arms crossed, jaw clenched.

And Rose?

She was gone.

The chopper she had boarded was missing from the radar grid.

And so was Walker.

Three Hours Earlier

Secure Holding Bay, Kashmir

Walker sat restrained, legs chained to the floor of the armored van inside the hangar. His eyes were half-lidded but sharp, like a predator waiting for the gate to creak open.

“You built this war around yourself,” Rose said as she checked the transfer file on the tablet. “It’s collapsing.”

He looked up, amused. “You still think you’re the one writing the ending?”

“You’re being flown to the Hague,” she continued, ignoring his tone. “The world will see what you are. A failure.”

Walker tilted his head. “You don’t understand, Rogue. I chose this ending.”

Suddenly, the emergency lights blinked. A pulse. Then another.

Gas hissed from the wall vents. Guards dropped like puppets.

Walker’s lips curled into a grin as he bit down on a molar, releasing a microdetonator in his cuff. The lock snapped open.

Rose reached for her weapon, but he was faster. He slammed the butt of a guard’s rifle into her side, catching her as she crumpled.

“I’m not going to kill you,” he whispered into her ear. “Not yet.”

He threw her over his shoulder and disappeared into the smoke.

Present

In the Sky Over Kashmir

Rose stirred to the dull roar of rotors and the bite of cable ties cutting into her wrists. Her head throbbed. Her vision cleared, metal walls, rattling doors, snow-capped peaks through scratched windows.

She was in a military transport chopper.

Across from her sat Walker, the remote detonator in his gloved hand.

“You should’ve let me go,” he said without looking at her. “Now you’re going to see it end. With me.”

“You’re sick,” she growled, struggling. “They’ll stop you.”

Walker laughed. “They’re too late. Kashmir will be the first cinder in a new order. And when they find our bodies, they’ll understand. We died to birth the world.”

Before she could answer, another chopper came into view, a silhouette cutting through the pale clouds.

The second bird.

Ethan. Ghost. Zohra.

“Right on time,” Walker muttered.

Aerial Dogfight

Above the Peaks

The two helicopters locked into a deadly dance through the treacherous passes of the Kashmir range.

Walker's gunner opened fire. Rounds slammed into the snow-draped cliffs as Ethan swerved to dodge. Ghost took up the mounted gun and let loose, lighting up the sky with hot brass and smoke trails.

Zohra barked into the comms, “We need a clean shot! Walker’s sitting on a nuke trigger!”

Ghost narrowed his eyes, steadying his aim. “Then we clip the wings, not the cockpit.”

The rotors screamed against the wind. Walker’s chopper banked hard right, scraping the cliff wall. Snow cascaded in an avalanche of powder and ice.

Benji’s voice cracked through the comms from a mobile uplink below: “Satellite’s showing seismic instability in the valley. If that detonator hits the ground, game over.”

“We're not letting it,” Ethan barked.

But then,

A shot pierced their tail rotor.

Ethan cursed. “We’re going down!”

Ghost grabbed Zohra. “We jump. Now!”

Zohra looked at him. “Together.”

They leapt out, just as the helicopter exploded in a crescendo of fire and steel against the mountainside.

Mountaintop

Final Confrontation

Walker dragged Rose from the wreckage of his own chopper, now smoking and tilting precariously over a jagged ridge.

She stumbled, wrists still bound, boots slipping on the ice. He stood over her, staring at the detonator like it was scripture.

“You see this?” he whispered. “This is rebirth.”

Rose spat blood. “You’re not a god. You’re a coward with a bomb.”

Suddenly, from the wreckage of the second helicopter,

Ghost emerged.

Limps bloodied, jacket scorched. Eyes burning.

He said nothing.

He ran.

The fight was raw. Brutal. Neither man spoke. They were beyond words.

Steel met flesh. Fists crashed like thunder. Snow turned red. Walker was stronger, but Ghost was relentless.

Then,

A misstep.

They both slid toward the edge.

A tangle of limbs.

A cable snapped free from the wreck and caught them both, dangling over the abyss, one hand each on the steel.

Walker snarled, kicking.

Ghost gritted his teeth.

Rose screamed.

Zohra appeared, battered and bleeding. She had climbed the wreck unseen.

She looked down at them.

Saw the detonator caught on a spar.

She whispered, “Kashmir will become your tomb.”

And she jumped.

She tackled Walker midair, snatched the detonator from his belt, and hurled it upward.

“Ethan!” she cried.

From the ridge, Ethan caught it.

Deactivated it with trembling fingers.

Below, Zohra and Walker fell.

Vanishing into the gorge.

Silence followed.

Then,

Ghost’s hand gripped the cliff edge.

He climbed.

Rose was there.

She fell to her knees beside him, sobbing.

“You’re alive.”

He coughed, half-laughing. “Told you. I don’t die easy.”

Ethan joined them. Bruised. Silent. Grieving.

Snow began to fall again.

Above them, the sky was clear.

Full story on wattpad.

[ltash]

Operation Esclipse

Ch-4 "The Rift"

"Ghost'Cod'xMI6xFem'OC'Reader"

"There is no greater war than the one you wage within yourself when the people you love might be the very ones pulling the trigger."

The roar of rotors faded into the wind as the black helicopter lifted off behind them. Rose, tightened her grip on the rifle slung over her chest. The air was thin, biting cold. Around her, the jagged peaks of Kashmir towered into the sky like the teeth of a sleeping god.

Ghost stood to her left, motionless, his skull mask streaked with snow. Beside him, Zohra Khan, the ISI analyst, adjusted the strap of her tactical backpack. Behind them, Ethan Hunt scanned the treeline through binoculars.

"Welcome to the roof of the world," Zohra murmured. "Let's hope it doesn't become our tomb."

Their objective was Darya-17, a forgotten Soviet facility buried deep in the mountains, now suspiciously active. Satellite scans showed intermittent power spikes. No official records acknowledged it. Walker, codenamed Hammer, had been traced here two days earlier.

And Rose had seen him.

On that encrypted feed, his eyes had met hers. Not by accident.

He wanted her to see him.

---

They moved in teams, Ethan and Zohra flanking from the east, Rose and Ghost circling around the north. Snow muffled their steps, the wind carving through the pine trees like whispers in another language.

"Thermals show two guards at the northeast vent," Ghost said quietly.

Rose peered through her scope. "Standard patrol. No heavy gear."

"They're confident. Or cocky."

Zohra's voice came through the comms: "This place is still generating low-grade power. The core might be sealed, but secondary systems are online. That means labs. Or worse."

Ghost grunted. "Great. Basement horrors."

Rose tapped her earpiece. "Let's breach silently. Ethan, Zohra, you take storage. We'll handle communications."

---

Interior

Communications Wing

The blast doors groaned open, revealing a narrow, windowless hallway lit by flickering yellow fluorescents. Dust choked the air. Old propaganda posters peeled from the walls.

Rose led with her rifle up, Ghost at her back. They moved quickly, checking corners, clearing rooms. The comms chamber was a bunker of wires, rusted consoles, and modern patchwork additions.

Ghost stepped to the main terminal. "Give me a minute."

Rose scanned the monitors. Surveillance feeds. One of them flickered, then focused.

Walker.

He was alive, calm, standing at a control station elsewhere in the facility. He was mid-sentence, unaware she was watching.

"...The plan is holding. Rogue will come. She always does. Riley will follow. Ethan's hands are tied."

Ghost's jaw clenched. "He's counting on your loyalty."

Rose couldn't speak. Her fingers twitched over the trigger.

Then, Walker turned. His eyes looked straight into the camera.

The feed went dead.

Ghost pulled the drive from the system and pocketed it. "He's in your head. Don't let him win there, too."

---

Elsewhere

Eastern Storage Wing

Zohra pried open an old refrigeration chamber. Inside: gas canisters, lined in rows. Most were empty. Some weren't.

Ethan examined one closely. "Modified Novichok. This is the real weapon. Not the nukes."

Zohra's hands trembled. "They tested this... didn't they?"

Ethan nodded solemnly. "On prisoners. Ghost was right. The nuke threat was a front."

She handed him a flash drive. "I pulled data from the auxiliary node. Test results, delivery systems, personnel logs. There's even a roster..."

Ethan paused. "Anyone familiar?"

She hesitated. "Walker. But also... Sloane."

Ethan's face darkened. "This goes higher than we thought."

---

Outside

Reunited at the Ridge

The teams regrouped under cover of snow and broken trees. Ghost handed the drive to Zohra. "Encrypted. Upload it to the secure IMF node."

Zohra nodded and worked her tablet. "Uplink in progress."

Rose paced, unsettled. "He's not hiding. He wants us to follow. He's playing a long game."

Ghost looked at her. "He's using you as bait. And worse, you're still trying to save him."

"I have to know why."

"You know why. He made you trust him. And now he's twisting that knife."

Ethan stepped between them. "Enough. We've got what we need. We confirm the location of the next drop, intercept the convoy, and end this."

Zohra added, "The next site's outside Srinagar. High-altitude logistics route. If he's moving the gas, it'll be there."

Rose looked toward the mountains. Cold, quiet, endless.

Ghost touched her shoulder. "You ready?"

She looked up at him. "No. But let's go anyway."

------

Zohra Khan was not the kind of intelligence officer who waited in offices for intel to trickle upward. An ISI field analyst known for her brutal honesty and unnerving accuracy, she had been monitoring cross-border arms movements when she stumbled onto a buried black op involving the CIA, disavowed IMF agents, and a rumored nerve agent project. Rather than stay silent, she defected from protocol, choosing to risk her life to warn those who might still stop it. Fluent in five languages, adept with satellite arrays and sidearms alike, Zohra had become an unlikely but indispensable part of the team. And if Kashmir was about to explode, she was going to make damn sure someone survived to tell the truth.

[ltash]

Operation Esclipse

Ch-3 "The Crosshairs"

"SimonRiley-'COD'xMI6xFem'OC'Reader"

"Betrayal isn't a bullet you see coming. It's the trigger you never thought they'd pull."

The safehouse in Prague was nothing more than a crumbling relic tucked between a forgotten bookstore and a laundromat that hadn't seen a real customer since the Cold War. Inside, its walls were thick, soundproofed. Concrete floor. One lightbulb swinging from the ceiling.

Rose stood over a steel table, staring down at Volkov's flash drive as if it were a live grenade.

Ghost sat silently against the wall, sharpening a combat knife with methodical care. The soft scrape of steel on whetstone was the only sound in the room.

"Still thinking of opening it?" he asked without looking up.

"I'm thinking," she said, voice taut.

"Thinking's good," Ghost muttered. "Better than trusting the wrong bastard."

She shot him a glare. "You're still on that?"

"I never left it."

She exhaled and inserted the drive into a secure laptop.

The screen flickered to life. Files spilled across it, schematics, audio logs, dead-drop locations in Kashmir, and encrypted emails with Sloane's watermark. One stood out, dated just forty-eight hours before Berlin:

> From: HMR-1 [Redacted]

To: ES-6 [Erica Sloane]

SUBJECT: Phoenix Protocol

"The detonation must look like a tactical accident. We'll frame IMF as the trigger. With Hunt off-grid, Walker's proximity to the package guarantees closure. Rogue is collateral. Riley's expendable."

Ghost pushed off the wall. "Jesus."

Rose froze. "No. That's not real."

"It's signed with his codename. HMR, Hammer. That's Walker."

"No. Someone planted this. Anyone could've accessed his signature. Volkov could've written it just to sow chaos."

Ghost stepped closer. "You don't want it to be true, Rose. That's not the same as it not being true."

She looked down at the email. Her hand trembled.

Ghost saw it.

He softened. "You trusted him. That's not a crime. But not seeing what's in front of you? That'll get you killed."

Before she could respond, the burner phone Ilsa had given them buzzed.

One message: "Safehouse compromised. Rendezvous. Coordinates sent. Hunt inbound."

Rose grabbed her gear. "Let's move."

---

Twenty minutes later

Prague Train Yards

The air reeked of metal and rain. Steam hissed from rusted pipes. Ghost and Rose moved between abandoned carriages like shadows.

A signal light blinked twice from a nearby control tower.

Ghost raised his rifle. "Cover me."

But before he could move, a voice echoed from above.

"Stand down, Ghost. It's me."

Ethan Hunt stepped into view, wearing a weathered IMF jacket, a handgun holstered low, and eyes that hadn't slept in days.

Rose exhaled sharply. "Dad."

She jogged up the stairs and threw her arms around him. Ethan held her tight.

"You okay?" he asked.

"I'm fine. But something's off. We almost had Makarov in Berlin. And then he vanished."

Ethan looked over her shoulder to Ghost. "You trust him?"

"More than anyone."

Ghost gave a curt nod.

"Good," Ethan said. "Because we've got a lead. An ISI analyst. Her name's Zohra Khan. She intercepted chatter about a rogue shipment leaving Berlin and moving toward Kashmir."

Ghost raised an eyebrow. "ISI's playing ball now?"

"She's clean," Ethan said. "Unofficial. But her intel is solid. She's agreed to meet us at a dead drop near the Czech border."

Rose asked, "What's in it for her?"

"She's not after money or protection. She's scared of what this operation means. She thinks someone inside CIA is using Makarov as a proxy."

Ghost and Rose exchanged a look.

"She knows about the Phoenix Protocol?" Rose asked.

"Enough to be a target," Ethan replied.

---

Two Hours Later

Czech Border Forest, 0500 hours

The forest was still soaked with dawn mist. Every step muffled, every breath visible.

Ghost took point. Rose flanked. Ethan covered their six.

Up ahead: a small clearing with a stone bridge crossing a shallow stream. On the other side stood a woman in a black field jacket, hair tied back, no weapons drawn.

She raised both hands. "You're late."

"Zohra Khan?" Rose called.

"Yes. And I'd rather not die today, so let's talk fast."

They approached cautiously.

Khan gestured to a waterproof case beside her. "This contains intercepted comms between a CIA black site and a private airstrip outside Kashmir. The payload is marked 'chemical hazard.' Not nuclear. That's a decoy."

Ghost narrowed his eyes. "So what's real?"

"A weaponized nerve agent, modified Novichok, airborne, undetectable. The strike isn't meant to destroy. It's meant to paralyze."

Rose stiffened. "Target?"

"Geneva."

Ethan swore. "Global security summit."

Khan nodded. "You unleash that gas there, and it'll cripple the UN. NATO leadership. IMF command."

Ghost muttered, "A coup by chaos."

Khan handed them a drive. "I risked everything to pull this. If they trace it back..."

"We'll make sure they don't," Rose said.

Suddenly, the comms in Ghost's earpiece flared. "Movement. Six contacts, fast approach."

"Ambush," Ghost growled.

Rose grabbed Khan. "Stay behind us."

From the trees, gunfire erupted. Suppressed rounds clipped bark and snapped twigs.

Ethan returned fire, Ghost laid down cover. Rose drew Khan behind a rock outcrop and snapped two shots, one assailant dropped.

More flanked from the ridge.

Rose spun, reloaded, picked off another with a clean temple shot.

Ghost lunged forward, tackling the last to the ground. He tore the mask away.

The attacker wore CIA dog tags.

Rose stared.

"This was a hit squad," Ethan said grimly.

Ghost held up the attacker's comm. "Command was coded to 'HMR.' Walker's tag."

"No," Rose whispered. "It can't be. There's an explanation."

Ethan looked at her. "I know you want to believe he's clean. But if this is a decoy op, and Walker's in Kashmir, he's either chasing the real weapon, or moving it."

Khan, bleeding from her arm, spoke weakly. "I heard something else... They called her 'Rogue Priority.' They said she had to be taken alive."

Ghost froze. "What?"

Rose's voice cracked. "Why me?"

"Because," Ethan said slowly, "you're his tether."

---

Back at Safehouse

0900 Hours

Rose paced while Ethan treated Khan's wound.

Ghost leaned against the wall, arms crossed.

"I was a mission profile," Rose muttered. "Not a partner. Not a soldier. Just leverage."

"No," Ethan said gently. "You're more than that. You're the last thing in this world he wanted to keep whole."

"That doesn't mean he won't break me," she replied.

Ghost stepped forward. "You're not broken. You're awake now."

She looked at the new drive Khan had given them.

Encrypted coordinates. Bunker complex. Kashmir.

Ghost glanced to Ethan. "What's our move?"

"We don't go in loud," Ethan said. "We infiltrate. Extract the intel. Confirm the nerve agent. Expose Walker if he's there."

"And if he's not?" Rose asked quietly.

Ghost answered. "Then we find out who's pulling his strings."

Ethan handed her the drive. "You ready, Rogue?"

She stared at the map coordinates glowing on the screen.

Then she nodded.

"Let's finish this."

[ltash]

Operation Esclipse

Ch-2 "The Valkyrie."

"SimonRiley'COD'xMI6x'FemOC'Reader"

"She was named after a Valkyrie not because she feared death, but because she kept escorting others back from the edge while dancing on it herself."

The rain had followed them to London.

It beat steadily against the windows of the SAS covert operations command post just outside Hereford. Inside, the war room hummed with activity. Screens displayed encrypted transmissions, live feeds from across the globe, and the ever-changing red threat matrix that glowed like a heartbeat.

Rose, stood motionless in the center of it all. Her sniper rifle was strapped to her back, her hair damp from the journey in, her eyes locked on the briefing monitor. The bandage around her arm had soaked slightly at the edges. She didn't care.

Behind her, Ghost approached with two mugs of black coffee. He set one down near her elbow and said nothing.

She didn't thank him.

She didn't have to.

The silence between them was heavy, but practiced, an old rhythm between two people used to watching each other's backs with rifles, not words.

But things weren't old anymore.

Things were changing.

Laswell's voice crackled through the overhead speakers. "Makarov's trail has gone cold, but the damage from Berlin is spreading. IMF and MI6 have confirmed Kashmir as the likely destination for the core. Plutonium like this doesn't travel alone."

A pause.

Then, "Rogue, Ghost. You'll be rerouted through Prague for recon. While MI6 preps transport, your orders are to remain on base. Understood?"

Ghost clicked his comms. "Understood."

Rose turned away, her jaw tight.

He followed her into the hallway.

"Stop walking away," he said quietly.

She froze, then turned slowly to face him. "What do you want, Simon?"

"I want to know what's going on in that head of yours. You've been off since Berlin."

She exhaled. "I was shot. I watched Makarov vanish into smoke. I saw August... Walker... let him go."

"You think he tipped them off?"

She hesitated. "I don't want to believe that."

He stepped closer. "But you do."

Their eyes met, the unspoken words coiling between them.

---

Flashback: Five Years Ago

SAS Selection, Brecon Beacons

The wind screamed over the Welsh moors. Mud caked Rose's face, and her lungs burned as she dragged the 80-pound Bergen over the ridgeline. Her fingers were raw, her knuckles bleeding.

One of the instructors barked in her ear. "You're too small for this! You'll break in half before we hit checkpoint two!"

She didn't answer. She just kept moving.

Pain was irrelevant. Fear had long since drained away. All that remained was one thought: Finish the march.

Behind her, a man in a balaclava jogged up silently. Simon Riley.

He didn't speak. Just passed her a water canteen and jogged on.

She never forgot that.

Later, when she'd passed selection, she found his name on the board.

Riley, S. - Passed.

Rose Hunt - Passed.

She didn't smile. But she felt something. A weight shift. The beginning of something she didn't understand.

---

Present

SAS Range, Hereford

The next morning, Rose stood at the firing range in the drizzle. The smell of oil, powder, and cold steel wrapped around her like armor.

Her rifle, a custom M110, sat snug against her shoulder. She exhaled slowly and fired.

The round punched through the bullseye.

"Still the best shot in the regiment," came a voice from behind her.

She turned. Captain John Price approached, lighting a cigar.

"I heard what happened in Berlin," he said. "Heard Walker played fast and loose."

"Is that what they're calling it now?" she said.

Price looked at her for a long moment. "Your dad was like that too. Always trusted his gut. Even when it got him into hell."

Rose set her rifle down. "He taught me to trust mine."

"You think Hammer's a problem?"

"I think he's the problem."

Price took a long drag. "Then you better be ready to make a choice, Rogue. Because if he is what you suspect... there won't be a lot of time to think."

---

Flashback: Two Years Ago

IMF Facility, Morocco

Ethan Hunt's voice echoed across the underground range.

"Again!"

Rose reset her stance, sweat pouring down her back as she sighted in on a simulated target.

"Check the wind!" Hunt called. "Think about your exit point before your entry. You don't take a shot unless you can vanish after."

Rose adjusted. Fired.

Center mass.

Ethan gave a tight nod. "You'll make a ghost yet."

"Already partnered with one," she smirked.

He paused, then softened. "Simon's good. Quiet. Reliable. But don't forget-if your heart starts guiding your trigger finger, walk away."

She didn't understand it then.

She would.

---

Present

MI6 Airstrip, England

The twin-engine surveillance jet waited under overcast skies. Laswell stood near the ramp, tablet in hand. Ghost loaded his gear silently beside her.

Rose arrived last. Her posture was stiff, her eyes guarded.

Laswell looked between them. "You two aren't just flying into recon. This mission is a litmus test. If Hammer is compromised, you'll find the truth in Prague. Makarov's pipeline runs through an old Soviet dead drop network under the city. You're looking for a man named Kazimir Volkov. Former FSB, now sells routes to the highest bidder."

"And if we find him?" Rose asked.

"Then we cut the leash Makarov's running on."

The ramp groaned as it closed. Inside, the jet was dimly lit, two rows of jump seats, weapons crates, and humming tech panels.

Rose sat across from Ghost. The silence grew.

Finally, he spoke.

"I read the Prague file."

"Did you?"

"He saved you."

"Yes."

"But he also lied to MI6, covered a casualty, and shot a man unarmed."

Her voice was ice. "That wasn't in the file."

"I read deeper."

She looked away. "It was complicated."

"You mean you were."

That silence wasn't practiced anymore. It was jagged.

---

Two Hours Later

Over Prague

Lights dotted the ancient city beneath them, glowing golden between the fingers of fog and church spires.

The jet touched down on a private runway and taxied to a waiting hangar. Inside, IMF handler Ilsa Faust waited with a folder in hand.

She greeted Rose with a nod. "Your father's gone radio silent since Berlin. This may be bigger than just Makarov."

Rose took the file. "How big?"

Ilsa's eyes flicked to Ghost, then back to her. "Big enough that if we're wrong, there'll be no one left to say we told you so."

Ghost's jaw tensed. "When do we meet Volkov?"

Ilsa handed him a burner phone. "Midnight. Charles Bridge. Bring only one shadow."

Rose took a breath. "I'll go."

Ghost's voice came low and certain. "Not alone."

She looked at him. Really looked at him.

For a second, she wasn't Rogue.

She was just Rose.

And he wasn't Ghost.

He was Simon.

The man who kept her alive through three countries, three wars, and a betrayal she hadn't fully let herself name.

She nodded.

"Together then."

---

Midnight

Charles Bridge, Prague

The Vltava flowed black and silent beneath the bridge's ancient arches. Statues lined the edges like sentinels from another age. Fog drifted low, clinging to stone.

Rose moved with measured silence beneath her coat, a Glock tucked beneath her arm. Ghost flanked her, barely a shadow himself.

A hunched man emerged from the mist.

Volkov.

Former FSB. Eyes like cracked glass. Fingers yellowed from years of tobacco and sins.

He looked at Rose. "Rogue. I knew your mother."

Ghost stiffened.

"You have information," she said. "I want it."

Volkov smiled. "Ah, the Hunt blood. Still impatient. Yes, I have what you seek, but it comes at a cost."

He held up a flash drive.

"Walker has already contacted me. Offered triple. But I prefer older debts."

Ghost's voice cut through the night. "And what do you want in return?"

Volkov's grin faded.

"Walker... isn't who he says. He works with Makarov now. But not for him. They're planning something beyond Kashmir. A decoy mission. The real target? Geneva."

Rose's heart thudded. "Why tell us?"

"Because if Makarov wins, I lose control of my empire. I need him dead. And I trust your father's blood more than Sloane's dogs."

He handed the drive to her. "But be warned. Once you open this, there is no going back."

The fog swallowed him again.

Rose looked down at the drive. Then up at Ghost.

He didn't say anything. He just nodded.

Together, they walked into the mist.

[ltash]

Operation Esclipse

Ch-1 "Dead Drop & Ghost"

"SimonRiley-CODxMI6x'femOC'reader"

“I desire the things that will destroy me in the end.”

The corridors of CIA headquarters were bathed in pale fluorescent light, clinical, sterile, and cold, much like the people who walked them. Simon "Ghost" Riley sat still in the briefing room, clad in his tactical blacks. His skull mask lay in his lap, his sharp eyes scanning the room from beneath the low brim of his cap.

The tension in his jaw was steel-forged. He didn’t like this place. Too many liars in tailored suits. Too much blood in the walls.

But he was here because Kate Laswell had summoned him. And when Laswell called, you came.

The door clicked open.

"Ghost," Laswell said, entering with a tablet in hand. "We’re waiting on two more."

Ghost gave a subtle nod. He didn’t need to ask who.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway. The door swung again.

Rose entered first.

SAS. Codename: Rogue.

His partner. A sniper so precise she could split a matchstick from a mile out. She had her auburn-brown hair pulled back into a high tactical ponytail, sharp eyes beneath thick lashes, and that unreadable look she always wore when she was on duty.

Right behind her was August Walker, also known inside the CIA as Hammer. He wasn’t just an agent. He was Erica Sloane’s personal weapon. Built like a tank, always cocky, always watching. Ghost had seen men like him before. Men who smiled while they twisted the knife.

Walker leaned in toward Rose, muttering something Ghost couldn’t hear, and she laughed.

Ghost’s fingers twitched on his mask.

Walker glanced over and locked eyes with him. Held it. Smirked.

Smug bastard.

Ghost clenched his jaw.

Laswell interrupted the moment. "Take your seats. We’ve got a potential nuclear crisis. Berlin. You’ve been selected because of your... overlapping priorities."

She tapped the tablet, projecting a holographic image of a known Russian arms dealer.

"We believe Viktor Makarov is attempting to acquire plutonium from a defunct Soviet bunker outside Berlin. IMF intercepted chatter that matches Task Force 141's intel. This mission will be a joint operation with MI6 and the CIA. Ethan Hunt is already on the ground."

Rose’s eyes flicked to the screen, her face taut with focus.

"Ethan Hunt?" Ghost asked, voice low.

"Your father’s there," Laswell added, glancing at Rose.

Ghost didn’t miss the tiny flicker in her expression.

"Your mission," Laswell continued, "is to infiltrate a black-market auction Makarov is attending and recover intel on the location of the plutonium. Ghost, you’re on overwatch. Rogue, you’re embedded with surveillance. Hammer handles extraction."

Walker leaned back in his chair. "About time we worked together properly, huh, Ghost?"

Ghost said nothing. His silence was louder than gunfire.

---

Berlin – 48 Hours Later

Rain fell in needles. The wind howled down alleys like a living thing. Berlin was dark, dirty, and angry tonight.

Ghost adjusted the scope on his M14 from a rooftop three clicks from the objective. In his comms, static crackled.

"Rogue, eyes on target?" he muttered.

"Copy," Rose’s voice whispered back. "Target moving toward the south corridor. He’s got two guards. I’ve got a window in ten seconds."

Ghost scanned his angle. He could see the backs of the Russian convoy entering the old Bundestag ruins, converted now into a private auction house for war criminals.

He could also see Walker. And he didn’t like it.

"You shouldn’t be down there with him," he said.

"You don’t get to tell me where to be, Riley," she snapped, but softer than her tone should’ve been.

Ghost exhaled. "I don’t trust him."

"You don’t trust anyone."

"Exactly."

"Eyes forward, Simon," she whispered. He hated how good she sounded saying his name.

Flashback: Six Months Ago, Prague

Rain on cobblestones. A surveillance op gone hot. Rose crouched behind a stone wall, rifle smoking.

“Sniper team, fall back!” someone yelled over the radio.

She was bleeding, cornered, and out of options, until a shadow moved behind her.

August Walker.

He dropped two hostiles without blinking.

“Come on, Rogue,” he said, offering a hand. “You owe me a drink after this.”

She hated him instantly. And then he smiled.

-----

Inside the auction house, Rose moved with perfect control, dressed in tactical black under a server’s coat. Her eyes scanned faces, wealthy dealers, rogue generals, and warlords with cigars.

She spotted him.

Makarov.

He stood beside a tall steel case.

The plutonium core.

She murmured into her comms, "Visual on package. Confirming identity. I’ll need Hammer’s code to access the manifest."

"Where the bloody hell is he?" Ghost growled.

"Right behind me," she replied.

Walker appeared beside her like a shadow. He leaned close, far too close.

"Did you miss me, Rogue?"

"Just give me the code."

He smirked and tapped it into her device.

The screen lit up. Location coordinates. Shipment logs. One word blinked red: Kashmir.

"Ghost," she whispered. "The nukes, he’s moving them to Kashmir. We need to..."

Gunfire.

Suddenly, chaos exploded. The ceiling blew inward. Glass rained down. Someone had tipped them off.

"Extraction compromised!" Walker shouted into the comms. "Move now!"

Rose ducked behind a stone pillar as bullets ripped through the air. She returned fire, her SIG barking thunder.

Ghost was already off the rooftop, ziplining down, his rifle slung as he dropped into the rear alley.

"Rogue, I’m inbound!"

"I’ve got eyes on Makarov! He’s heading out the side..."

Gunfire cut her off.

Ghost found her behind an overturned table, bleeding from her arm.

"Rose!"

"I’m fine," she said through gritted teeth, reloading. "Go after Makarov!"

"You’re my bloody mission now," he snapped, pulling her up with one arm and covering them with suppressive fire.

Walker burst through the side, engaging two masked gunmen near the vault.

"He’s gone!" Walker shouted. "Makarov’s slipped out the back!"

Ghost gritted his teeth. He hated this. He hated everything about how close Walker stayed to Rose.

She stumbled. He caught her.

"You’re hit."

"It’s nothing."

"Bullshite."

------

Ghost POV

He hated watching her bleed. Hated watching him near her even more.

Walker acted like he owned the ground she walked on.

But she wasn’t his.

And if Ghost had anything to say about it, she never would be.

Sirens screamed in the distance.

Walker barked, "Chopper’s two clicks east. Let’s move!"

They exited through smoke and gunfire, with Ghost’s arm firmly around Rose, Walker flanking them like a shadow. The mission had failed. Makarov was gone. The nuke was headed to Kashmir.

But Ghost knew something more dangerous had just begun.

He saw it in the way Walker looked at Rose.

Possessive. Obsessive.

And in the way Rose didn’t see it at all.

--------

Later That Night ,

Safehouse Bravo, Berlin Outskirts

The safehouse was silent save for the low hum of fluorescent lights and the hiss of boiling water in the kettle. Rose sat on the edge of a steel-framed cot, arm wrapped in gauze, blood crusted on her sleeve.

Ghost leaned against the wall near the entrance, arms crossed.

"You should sleep," he said, voice like gravel.

"You should stop staring at me like I broke your favorite rifle," she muttered.

He didn’t smile. But something in his eyes flickered.

"I saw the way he looked at you."

She froze, not looking up. "I’m not yours to worry about, Ghost."

"I’m your partner. That makes it my job."

She stood. Walked past him. Paused at the door.

"You didn’t answer the question."

He didn’t.

And she didn’t look back.

In the corner, behind closed lips, Ghost whispered only to himself.

"That’s the problem."

Outside, thunder cracked across Berlin. And somewhere far east... in Kashmir... the clock had already started ticking.

[ltash]

New Story Update on Wattpad.

CallofdutyxMissionImpossible

SimonRileyxfem'OC'reader

"She was trained to pull the trigger. Not fall for the man behind the mask."

Rose, codename Rogue, is one of the British SAS's finest snipers. Smart, lethal, and fiercely loyal, she's been in a serious relationship with August Walker, CIA's golden boy, who she believes shares her ideals of loyalty and justice. But behind that charming smile, Walker is hiding a monstrous truth.

Assigned to Task Force 141, Rose partners with the elusive Ghost, whose silence speaks volumes. Their relationship starts as icy professionalism, but through mission after mission, Ghost finds himself quietly drawn to her, not just as a soldier, but as a woman.

When a mission in Paris explodes in betrayal, August is unmasked as John Lark, a rogue agent who kidnaps Rose and intends to detonate three nuclear bombs to "cleanse the world", and take her with him.

While Ghost, Ethan Hunt, and Task Force 141 launch a desperate international rescue, Rose must fight for survival, resist psychological manipulation, and confront the man she once loved. Amid snowstorms, crashes, fistfights, and heartbreak, only one thing remains constant, Ghost will stop at nothing to bring her home.

Their journey leads to a final aerial showdown over the Himalayas, and a love born in fire, forged in war.

As MI6, IMF, and 141 race to stop a global catastrophe, alliances fracture, secrets ignite, and hearts bleed beneath the body armor.

In a world of smoke and lies, only one truth remains:

Loyalty always leaves scars.

I hope you will enjoy it. So excited to write it...

[ltash]

Gh💀St

[ltash]

The Apparition

Warning: Ptsd, Trauma, Angst

"Why are you never real?

The shifting states you follow me through,

Unrevealed,

Just let me go or take me with you.."

▪︎Sleep Token▪︎

The apartment was quiet.

Too quiet.

He stepped inside, peeling off his blood-soaked gloves and letting them fall to the floor. The door clicked shut behind him with a hollow finality. Outside, the city murmured with distant sirens and the hum of late-night life. But inside this place… there was nothing. Just shadows and stale air.

Ghost dropped his gear like dead weight, boots thudding heavily across the wooden floor. His mask was still on. It always was, long after the mission ended. He didn’t know how to take it off anymore.

The bathroom mirror was cracked, spiderwebbed from where he'd punched it last month. He stood before it now, unmoving. The mask stared back.

Dead eyes in painted bone.

He reached up slowly, fingers trembling, and peeled the skull away. The fabric clung to his sweat-drenched skin like it didn’t want to let go.

And then…

There he was.

Simon.

The man beneath.

Blue eyes ringed with red. Stubble darkened with dried blood. Hollowed cheeks. Bruises bloomed along his jaw. The scar across his throat looked angrier than usual, raised like something that wanted to speak but never dared.

He blinked once.

“Why are you never real,” his mind whispered, the lyrics echoing like a prayer.

Simon stared at himself.

“Whenever you appear.”

He didn’t recognize the face.

This wasn’t the man people thanked. The one soldiers admired. The ghost that haunted battlefields. This was someone else. Someone brittle. A boy who never came home from Manchester. A son. A brother.

“You leave me with that grace…”

There was something graceful about the way he wore pain. Like it was tailored for him. A second skin.

But it terrified him.

Because beneath that grace, beneath the precision and the rage, there was nothing solid left. Nothing human. Just fragments.

Simon reached up and touched the mirror, fingertips brushing the cold reflection.

The mirror trembled.

Or maybe he did.

“I am trembling in fear.”

He didn’t cry. Not really. Just stared at Simon, this stranger in the mirror, and wondered how many more pieces he could lose before there was nothing left to wear the mask.

And still… tomorrow, he’d put it back on.

Because Ghost was needed.

Simon was not.

The mirror shimmered.

Not really, but it felt like it did, as if time bent slightly around the figure staring back at him.

Not the Ghost. Not even Simon.

But something… else.

Something older.

More human.

More whole.

For a second, just one fragile, trembling second, he thought he saw her.

Behind his shoulder in the reflection.

That ghost that wasn’t him.

The one that whispered in dreams, long after the mission ended.

The one who knew the Simon beneath the carnage.

Her voice brushed the shell of his ear like breath:

"Come back to me."

He didn’t turn. Couldn’t.

He just stared at her echo in the mirror, soft smile, eyes warm with the kind of love that once knew him. Not as a weapon. Not as a killer. But as a man.

And just like that, She was gone.

The mirror only held him now.

The hollow shell.

The blood.

The mask lying on the counter like a corpse.

He swallowed hard.

A part of him wanted to call out. Not on comms. Not in code. Not to Soap or Price or anyone who knew the war-stained version of him.

Just…

“My love.”

A name that never got to exist.

“But I know that you will disappear… just as I awake.”

It always happened this way.

He'd return from hell, aching and full of ghosts.

And she'd be there, if only for a moment. A flicker.

The only softness left in him.

The only proof that something tender ever lived in his chest.

"Somewhere in the past…"

Yes. Somewhere before the violence. Before the mask. Before the bodies.

There had been something.

A laugh.

A touch.

A life.

A love.

"Something was between you and I, my dear."

He pressed his forehead to the mirror. Cold glass met burning skin.

And for a heartbeat, he imagined her hand there too.

The scar on his chest, just above his heart, ached.

It wasn’t the wound that hurt. Not really.

It was what it meant.

He touched it now, standing in that cold bathroom, bare-chested and hollow-eyed. The lines of trauma ran deeper than the skin. That scar, the one the medics stitched while she lay dying in another time zone, had never healed.

No matter how many times he came back.

No matter how many he buried to make it right.

It stayed.

Like her voice.

Like her hands.

Like her laugh, sometimes cruel, sometimes sweet, always his.

He tilted his head back and exhaled shakily.

She was gone. Years gone. But she remained.

“No matter what I do…”

It played like an echo every night when sleep dared to come.

And in that dream world, she’d always find him.

She’d sit on his bed in the safehouse like no time had passed, swing her legs like a child, smirk and say:

"Let’s get into trouble, soldier."

And he would.

He’d follow her through the memory.

Through old alleys in Prague, through rain-drenched nights in Belfast.

Through laughter and argument and tangled sheets.

They’d make chaos of heaven. They’d hijack it, just for one more hour. One more lie.

Because reality was empty without her.

Because his heaven was broken without her.

“I make the most of the turning tide…”

He had to.

He’d become the tide. He’d drown what was left.

He killed and killed and wore the mask tighter until it fused with the bone.

But when the missions ended and the silence returned,

Not peace, not rest. Just that still, soul-crushing silence, She was there.

Woven into it.

Splitting it open like a blade.

“It just split what’s left of the burning silence.”

Simon Riley, if that name still meant anything, stood barefoot in that flickering bathroom, eyes burning, fists clenched.

And he whispered to the darkness:

"I remember you."

Even if it killed him.

Even if the world only knew Ghost.

In the dream world, she still loved him.

In the real world, he was haunted.

But somewhere between those two..

He still believed in her.

He hadn't slept in two days.

Not real sleep, not the kind that heals.

Just the kind that kills slowly, silently, behind closed eyes, in whispered echoes of her voice.

And tonight... she returned.

In the dream, she stood at the edge of a war zone, barefoot in a field of ash. The wind didn’t move her hair, didn’t touch her. She looked untouched by the fire, like an angel lost behind enemy lines.

"Don't wait, Simon," she said.

Her voice was softer now.

“This could be the last time.”

The last time she'd find him.

The last time the dream would carry her back to him.

The last time he’d see anything good.

He wanted to speak.

To scream.

To tell her not to go.

But when he opened his mouth, all that spilled out was static and gunfire.

And then he woke.

Violently.

Heart hammering.

Sheets tangled around his legs like restraints.

Sweat soaked into the mattress.

Breath heaving.

The gun was on the nightstand.

It always was.

Loaded. Waiting.

Just like the dreams.

"I wake up to a suicide frenzy..."

A spiral he couldn't control.

Flashes of blood.

Her eyes in his scope, only to blink and realize it was someone else.

His own hands shaking after a kill that didn’t deserve mercy.

And still she lingered.

Like a ghost of something beautiful that the world had no right to keep.

"Loaded dreams still leave me empty."

He sat up, rubbing his hands over his face, palms trembling against a jaw that refused to stop grinding.

Every night, he died a little.

And every morning, he was reborn as Ghost.

But the man who once kissed her forehead, who whispered promises into the hollow of her throat,

That man was disappearing.

And maybe this was the last time she'd appear.

The last time her phantom reached through the burning static of his mind.

He turned toward the window, city lights blinking like distant stars.

"Don’t go," he whispered to the night.

But the night had no mercy.

And neither did memory.

The city was asleep.

But he wasn’t.

Simon stood on the apartment balcony, bare feet on concrete, the wind brushing against his skin like memory itself, soft, cold, uninvited.

His mask lay inside. Forgotten.

Tonight, he wanted to face the night as himself.

Or at least the version of himself that hadn’t been entirely consumed by the wars, by the blood, by the mask.

He lit a cigarette with shaking fingers.

Took one long, bitter drag.

Held it in his lungs like he used to hold her breathless.

"I believe..."

The words echoed in his head, his voice, not hers.

He never got to say it to her.

Not before she left.

Not before fate pulled the trigger.

But he believed. Still.

Somewhere deep in the crumbling architecture of his heart, he believed there was something between them.

Something soft.

Something sacred.

Something real in a world where everything else had become artificial.

"And it remains with me to this day..."

God, did it remain.

In the way he touched his chest at night without thinking.

In the way he set out two cups of coffee every morning before realizing only one would be drunk.

In the way he couldn't delete her number. Her messages. Her photo, folded and creased in the pocket of his tactical vest.

"No matter what I do..."

He'd tried.

Tried drowning her memory in missions.

In blood.

In silence.

But she always came back.

When the smoke cleared.

When the trigger cooled.

When he laid down at night and closed his eyes,

She was there.

"This wound will never heal."

Not with time.

Not with distance.

Not even with death.

Because some wounds aren't meant to close.

They’re meant to remind you that once, you loved.

And it wrecked you.

Simon finished the cigarette, crushed it under his heel.

He looked up at the sky.

Not for answers.

Not even for her.

Just so she’d know he still did.

Still looked.

Still waited.

Still believed.

The room exploded with violence.

Not from an enemy.

From him.

Simon’s fist went through the mirror first.

Blood smeared across fractured reflections, Ghost, Simon, someone in between.

Then the lamp, ripped from the table, shattered against the wall.

The coffee table flipped.

The photo frame, her photo, slammed face-down and split in two.

He was losing it.

No, he’d already lost it.

Tonight was just the moment it finally showed.

"Why are you never real?" he gasped, voice raw as he stood in the wreckage of his apartment, chest heaving like he’d run for miles.

She was always there..

In the dream.

In the steam of the mirror.

In the smell of rain.

In the feel of a hand that wasn’t real.

But never here.

Never real.

Never his again.

"The shifting states you follow me through..."

He stumbled to his knees, hands clutching his hair, the bandages from earlier bleeding through at the knuckles. His vision blurred.

She was everywhere and nowhere.

Whispering in the field.

Sitting on the edge of his bunk.

Laughing in the corridor of his memory.

"Unrevealed..."

That was what she always was.

A dream just out of reach.

A ghost that didn’t speak.

A love unfinished.

"Just let me go..."

He whispered it into the silence, voice shaking.

He meant it.

He would survive warzones.

He would survive bullets.

But he could not survive this.

"Or take me with you..."

And for a moment, just one flicker of time,

He wanted her to.

To pull him from this life of blood and vengeance.

To let him rest where she rested.

To leave behind the world that turned him into a shadow.

The storm he made in his home settled into a crushing stillness.

Glass crackled beneath him as he sat back against the wall, staring at the ruined photo, her smile split down the middle.

His hands dropped to his lap, blood trailing from his fingers.

Tears rolled silently.

For the first time in years, Simon Riley didn’t reach for the mask.

Didn’t wipe the blood.

Didn’t move.

He just sat there,

In the wreckage.

In the ache.

In the ghost of her touch.

And somewhere, in the deafening silence of it all,

She remained.

[ltash]

"Wicked" Last pt

SimonGhostRileyxf!"Rose"reader

From her highschool bully to her wicked bodyguard, from Simon to Ghost

Gunfire crackled through the mansion like a thunderstorm splitting the sky.

Rose heard it all, The boots stomping down the hallways.

The sharp shouts.

The desperate cries of Massimo’s men as Task Force 141 descended like vengeance from the heavens.

Every shot echoed in her bones.

Every scream reminded her she was still alive.

Still breathing.

Still broken.

She didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

She laid there, trembling, eyes wide and blank, her mind looping through the last hour like a scratched reel. She flinched at every burst of gunfire, curling further into the sheets, her fingers fisted in the fabric like it was the only thing anchoring her.

Where was Massimo?

Where was that monster?

The question beat inside her skull. But there was no answer. No voice. No footstep.

Only the quiet thud of bodies dropping and the roar of Ghost’s voice, barking orders like a commander born from war.

“Clear the north wing.”

“Room by room. Take them alive if you can. Dead if you must.”

“He doesn’t leave this island. Not this time.”

But Massimo wasn’t there.

The coward.

He’d slithered away, probably back to Portofino, leaving his blood-soaked empire crumbling behind him.

And then, Silence.

Like a switch had flipped.

Like the storm had passed.

Ghost exhaled, slow and hard, the breath he’d been holding since the moment he’d broken through her door. His heart was still a war drum in his chest, but the danger had passed. For now.

She was safe.

He turned, ignoring the bodies behind him, stepping over blood and shattered glass like it was just another mission. His boots tracked crimson footprints back into her room.

Back to her.

She hadn’t moved.

Not since he left.

She was still curled on the edge of the bed, his tactical jacket around her shoulders, too large, drowning her like a shield. Her hair was tangled. Her eyes glassy. Her skin pale as bone china under the soft light.

But her gaze snapped to him when he walked in.

And then, she broke.

“Simon…” she whispered, voice barely more than air. “You came back…”

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

He just crossed the room, his jaw clenched tight, and then, he gathered her into his arms.

Rose collapsed into him, her fingers clawing at his chest, clutching the front of his black gear like she was afraid he’d disappear.

And then the sobs came.

“He ruined me…”

Her voice shattered against him.

“He ruined me, Simon…”

Her face buried in his chest, her tears soaking through his shirt, her body wracked with tremors that wouldn’t stop.

Ghost didn’t speak at first.

He just held her tighter.

One arm wrapped protectively around her back, the other cradling the back of her head. His lips pressed into her hair, eyes closed, jaw locked against the storm in his throat.

“No,” he whispered eventually, voice hoarse. “He didn’t ruin you.”

She shook her head, harder this time. “You don’t understand what he did, he.”

“I saw.” His voice cracked. “I saw, Rose. And if I could trade places with you, I would. In a heartbeat. I should’ve been there. I should’ve never let this happen to you.”

She cried harder.

“I used to hate you,” she whispered, choking on her sobs. “In school. For the way you made me feel. For how much you hurt me. But this… this is worse.”

His arms tensed around her.

“I know,” he said. “And I’m going to spend the rest of my life making up for every second of it. If you let me.”

A pause.

The sound of sirens blared faintly in the distance. Task Force 141 was securing the perimeter. Palm Jumeirah would never be the same.

“You didn’t deserve any of this,” he said, brushing her hair away from her tear-stained cheek. “And I swear to God, Rose, on Tommy’s name, I’ll never let anyone touch you again.”

She clung to him, breathing him in, trying to pull herself from the abyss.

“I feel so dirty,” she whispered.

“You’re not,” he said firmly, his fingers curling protectively around her. “You’re strong. And brave. And still you.”

She looked up at him then, really looked, at the Simon she once knew and the Ghost he had become. The soldier. The protector.

Her broken protector.

And for a moment, in the wreckage of the night, with her body still aching and her soul still bleeding...

She believed him.

A week had passed.

The golden sands of Palm Jumeirah were far behind them now.

The mansion, the shattered glass, the blood on the tiles, it all lingered in Rose’s memory like smoke after a fire. But now she woke to the soft overcast light of an English morning, wrapped in a heavy blanket, the scent of fresh coffee and military-grade disinfectant hanging in the air.

She was in England.

At a secure SAS base.

And Simon Riley hadn’t left her side since.

The quarters assigned to him were officer-level, bare, efficient, tucked in a quiet corner of the base shielded by layers of authorization, cameras, and more men in black gear than Rose could count.

Her room was adjacent to his. She wasn’t under lock and key, but Ghost, Simon made it clear.

“You don’t go anywhere without me. No errands. No walks. Not even a bloody tea run.”

She didn’t argue.

She didn’t want to.

Because whenever she closed her eyes, she still heard Massimo’s voice.

Still felt the way her body had frozen under his.

Still remembered the weight of the ring box in her hand and the bruises on her soul.

Simon saw it, even when she didn’t say a word.

He was gentler now than she’d ever known him to be, quieter, too. The Ghost inside him had retreated just far enough to let Simon exist beside her. Not the soldier. Not the executioner. But the boy she once knew, who stood beside her at prom and never took her hand.

Now, he didn’t let it go.

---

Friday – 11:43 PM

SAS Operations Room

Simon stood alone in front of a classified monitor, his broad frame wrapped in black fatigues, a half-empty mug of black coffee cooling on the console beside him.

Satellite images flickered across the screen, Portofino. A known Massimo front.

A villa by the coast. Private helipad. Security perimeter.

He clenched his jaw. His gloved finger hovered over the map.

“Coward didn’t even change his hideout.”

Behind him, the comms room was quiet save for the hum of screens and the occasional clack of boots on steel flooring.

Simon reached down, pressed a button on the panel, and leaned forward to record.

His voice came out low, cold, like steel dragged through ash.

“Massimo Toricelli.”

“You thought you could hide. Thought you could touch her and walk away.”

He stared directly into the lens.

“You’re a dead man.”

“I don’t care how deep you dig your hole, I’ll pull you out by the throat and make you watch yourself burn.”

“You think you broke her? You didn’t.”

“You just gave me a reason.”

A beat. A breath.

“I’m coming for you. I’ll hunt you down to the end of the fucking Earth.”

He ended the recording and sent it through a scrambled channel used by arms dealers and syndicates alike, he knew Massimo would hear it. Knew it would find him.

Let him squirm.

Let him sweat.

Let him know hell was coming.

Rose’s Room – 12:08 AM

The light was still on when he came back.

She was curled on the cot, legs tucked under her, reading a file quietly. Her bruises were healing, slowly, but the strength in her posture was returning.

Simon stepped inside, silent as a shadow.

She looked up.

“Was it him?”

He didn’t answer. Just nodded once.

She closed the file, eyes steady.

“Did you tell him?”

“I sent him a message.” His voice was quiet, but dark. “No threats. Just a promise.”

“Good.” She paused. “Because I want to be there when you keep it.”

Simon crossed the room, knelt down beside her.

He reached out, gently brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. He never rushed her. Never assumed. But tonight, she leaned into his touch.

“I still wake up,” she whispered, “thinking I’m there. In that room.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want to be afraid of him anymore, Simon.”

His eyes burned with quiet rage.

“You won’t be. Not while I’m breathing.”

Outside, the wind howled across the field. The base slept under high alert.

But within these steel walls, something was being built between them again, slowly, cautiously.

Not revenge. Not just survival.

But something like hope.

The golden sun dipped behind the hills of Portofino, casting long shadows over the sea-slick rooftops of Massimo Toricelli’s infamous coastal villa. But peace was a luxury he could no longer afford.

Because Task Force 141 had arrived.

The sky ripped open with the thunder of Black Hawks descending. Dust, chaos, and orders shouted in clipped British accents filled the air. A single signal had been given.

"Execute."

Captain Price led the charge. Gaz and Soap swept the perimeter while Ghost moved like death incarnate, his skull mask a warning carved in bone. The villa’s security barely had time to react.

Gunfire erupted from the main courtyard. Automatic rifles crackled. Shouts echoed. Grenades lit the twilight.

"Go, go, go! Sweep the left hall!"

Inside, Massimo ran.

His guards dropped like dominoes, overwhelmed by the precision and brutality of Task Force 141. The Don himself darted through marbled corridors, shoving antique vases and staff out of his way, blood pounding in his ears.

But he didn’t get far.

At the end of the grand hallway, a shadow moved.

Ghost emerged from the smoke like a nightmare. Towering. Silent.

"Going somewhere?" Simon growled.

Massimo turned to flee but Ghost was faster. In a single lunge, he grabbed Massimo by the collar and slammed him against the stone wall. The Don’s face snapped back with the force of it.

"You touched her," Ghost seethed, slamming him again.

"She begged for mercy," Massimo spat, blood already trickling from his lip.

Ghost saw red.

The first punch landed with a sickening crunch. Then the second. Then the third.

"That's for every tear she cried." "For every bruise you left on her skin." "For every night she woke up screaming."

Massimo's face was a ruin, his body sagging with each blow. Blood splattered against the wall. A tooth flew from his mouth. He tried to raise his arms, but they were too slow, too broken.

"Ghost! That's enough!" Price bellowed from the corridor.

Simon didn't stop.

"He hurt her!"

"I know! But if you kill him, he gets off easy!"

Price grabbed Ghost by the vest, yanking him off the slumped figure.

Massimo collapsed to the ground, coughing blood, groaning like the rat he was.

"Arrest this son of a bitch," Price barked to the Italian special forces who had finally breached the back gate. "He's got a court date."

Massimo was dragged out, shackled, barely able to walk.

Later, in the courtroom, he faced charges from over a dozen countries. Trafficking. Assault. Torture. False imprisonment. His own allies abandoned him. His empire fell apart.

Millions in damages. Life imprisonment without parole.

But for Rose and Ghost, it wasn’t about the sentence.

It was about the moment.

The moment justice finally showed its face.

The wind was brisk on the RAF base that morning, sweeping over the tarmac in quiet gusts, rustling the corners of flags and lifting the hems of uniforms. It was unusually calm. No alarms, no drills. Just the steel grey clouds overhead and the low hum of distant jets.

Ghost stood by the fence overlooking the runway. Dressed in his fatigues, he looked like he belonged to the silence. The weight of war still hung on his shoulders, but something softer had returned to his eyes in the past weeks.

He heard her before he saw her.

The gentle steps on gravel. The subtle shift in the air. And then, her hand, warm and sure, slid into his.

Rose.

She had healed slowly, painfully. But she had healed. The bruises were gone, the shadows under her eyes fading. But it was the strength in her grip that told him she was back. Alive. Whole. His.

“You’re brooding again,” she teased softly, bumping her shoulder against his.

Simon turned toward her, a rare smile tugging at the edge of his lips.

“Force of habit,” he murmured.

They stood there quietly, hands clasped, until she leaned her head on his shoulder. The sky was a wash of pale blue behind her, and for the first time in a long time, the world didn’t feel like a battlefield.

Simon exhaled. Then turned fully to face her.

He cupped her face gently, thumbs brushing her cheeks.

“I’ve seen hell,” he said. “Fought monsters. Survived things I don’t even speak about. But nothing ever scared me like losing you.”

Her lips parted slightly. Her eyes shimmered.

“I promised myself I’d keep you safe, Rose,” he said. “Not just from him. From everything. Even from me, if I ever became something I swore I’d never be.”

Her hands came up to hold his wrists. “Simon”

“Marry me,” he interrupted quietly, voice almost a whisper.

She blinked, startled.

He didn’t flinch. “I want to wake up beside you. I want to build something real. A life. A home. You’re the only thing that’s ever made sense in all this noise.”

“Simon…” her voice caught in her throat.

He tilted his head slightly, his lips curving just a little. “I don’t have a ring yet. But I’ll get you one. A real one. Not one stuffed in a velvet box by some psychopath.”

Tears gathered in her eyes, but she laughed through them.

“Yes,” she whispered, breathless. “Yes, Simon. Of course, yes.”

He let out a shaky breath, something caught between a laugh and a sigh of relief.

Then he kissed her.

Not like a soldier returning from war. Not like a man desperate for something he lost.

But like someone who’d found his home. Finally. Fully.

Her hands slid into his hair as he pulled her close, anchoring her against him like he’d never let go again.

The air around them stood still, the base fading behind them. For a moment, there was only them. No wars. No ghosts.

Just Simon and Rose.

And the beginning of forever.

[ltash]

"Wicked" Pt-4

SimonGhostRileyxf!"Rose"reader

From her highschool bully to her wicked bodyguard, from Simon to Ghost.

The golden light spilled into the room from the wide balcony windows, casting long shadows along the cream-colored marble. The velvet drapes swayed slightly in the warm Dubai breeze, but inside, the air was thick with tension and something far older, recognition, longing... grief turned tender.

Rose stood trembling, her fingers laced with Simon's. Her mind reeled, she couldn't believe this was him.

Simon Riley.

The same boy who used to haunt the hallways with bruised knuckles and ice in his veins. The boy who pushed people away, who never took her hand at prom.

Now... he stood in front of her, all six feet of war-forged muscle and quiet fury, holding her like she mattered. Like he'd crossed oceans just to be here.

She reached up slowly, unable to stop herself. Her fingers brushed over the edge of his jawline, callused and strong. "Simon..." she breathed, almost afraid he'd vanish again. "I missed you."

She stood on her toes, just like that night at prom when he refused to dance, and kissed him. Gently. Tentatively.

This time, he didn't pull away.

His hands slid to her waist as he kissed her back, careful and slow. Like he was memorizing the taste of something he'd been starved of. It was soft, still fragile , the kiss of a girl who never stopped wondering and a man who never forgave himself.

But the moment shattered in a single breath

"Well, well... if it isn't the knight in shining fucking armor."

The voice coiled through the room like smoke, thick with venom and amusement.

Rose flinched and tore away from Simon's lips. Her heart stopped cold.

She turned just in time to see him , Massimo, standing in the doorway like a lion who never truly left the cage.

"Massimo!" she gasped, instinctively stepping behind Simon as if the inches between them could shield her from a monster.

Simon's body instantly shifted into a protective stance, wide shoulders squared, jaw set, his unmasked face now visible. No more Ghost. No more shadow.

Just Simon.

Massimo stepped inside slowly, with the confidence of a man who believed every room still belonged to him. His charcoal blazer was unbuttoned, a silver chain gleaming against his collarbone. His eyes, however, were locked on the pair of them, narrowed, calculating.

"You must be wondering, carina, why I came back," Massimo said, his voice like silk laced with steel. "I forgot something. A little gift I thought might cheer you up."

He held up a small, black velvet box in his palm.

Rose's stomach dropped.

"A ring," he said smoothly, approaching with the slowness of a predator. "But I think I'll save it... for a more memorable occasion."

Simon's fists clenched, silent fury vibrating beneath his skin.

Massimo's gaze swept to him with thinly veiled contempt. "You didn't tell me you had a boyfriend, carina. Or is this a new hobby? Seducing the bodyguards when you are bored?"

He tilted his head. "And here you are, kissing my fiancée in her fucking bedroom."

"She's not yours," Ghost growled, finally speaking. His voice was low, coarse, unmistakably dangerous.

Massimo laughed. "Oh? And what are you going to do about it, Ghost?"

Massimo's eyes flicked to him, narrowed.

"Well," he said softly, tilting his head, "You're not wearing the mask anymore. Guess you weren't planning to keep this little secret long, were you... Ghost?"

"You're not welcome here," Simon said, voice low and deadly. "Leave."

Simon's voice was ice. "You touch her again, I swear..."

"You'll what?" Massimo interrupted, stopping a few feet away. "Shoot me in her living room? You're just a ghost, remember? A shadow. You're not even supposed to exist."

Rose stepped out from behind Simon suddenly, fists clenched. "He exists more than you ever will."

Massimo turned to her slowly. "Careful, carina. I've been very generous with you. All of this?" He gestured around. "The house. The protection. The life you live? It's mine. You owe me."

"I don't owe you a damn thing," Rose snapped.

Massimo's smile vanished.

"I'll give you one more chance," he said darkly, eyes locked on her. "Send him away. Or I'll make sure he leaves in pieces."

Simon moved forward once, just one step. Controlled. Deliberate.

"Try it," he said. "And you won't leave at all."

The tension cracked like static.

Massimo stood still for a moment too long, jaw ticking. Then a smirk.

"Shut up, Massimo," Rose said through her teeth, voice shaking.

"Oh, don't be shy," he continued with a wicked grin. "I'm not judging. Everyone needs a little rebellion now and then. It's cute, really. The tragic reunion. The kiss. But you forgot something" he raised a brow, " he works for me."

"I don't work for you," Simon said, voice low and deadly.

Massimo's grin faded.

"Oh? Then who do you work for, Ghost? You think I don't do my homework?"

Massimo chuckled. "Bold. I admire that." He stepped closer. "You know, I had my suspicions about you. Too tall. Too quiet. Too... trained. But I figured she needed protection, not a fucking SAS hitman playing hero."

Simon stepped forward once. Just enough.

"Touch her again," he growled, "and I'll make sure you never leave this house standing."

A dangerous pause.

Massimo laughed, sharp, humorless. "You have no idea who you're threatening, soldier."

"Neither do you," Simon shot back.

Rose stepped out from behind him now, hands balled at her sides.

"He's not threatening you," she said, voice quivering but strong. "He's protecting me. Something you've never done. All you've ever done is control me, buy me, trap me."

Massimo's jaw ticked. His grip on the ring box tightened, knuckles white.

"And you," he sneered, turning to Simon. "Do you really think this ends well for you? You think you'll just waltz out with her in your arms and I'll let that happen?"

Simon's voice was a razor. "Try and stop me."

Another beat.

The room crackled with tension , unspoken violence hanging between every breath.

Massimo's lips curled into a cruel smirk.

"We'll see how long that fantasy lasts, Ghost."

Suddenly, clicks filled the air.

The low, metallic sounds of safeties going off.

Before Simon could even blink, five of Massimo's armed men flooded the room, through hidden doors, behind heavy drapes, like shadows unleashed.

Trained. Coordinated.

Simon spun around, body tensing, hand instinctively reaching for the knife tucked in his tactical belt, too late.

Two men seized him by the arms. One jammed a rifle muzzle into his back.

"Stand down," the thug growled.

Simon's eyes darted to Rose, who had stumbled back, heart in her throat.

"Let him go!" she screamed.

But it was no use.

Massimo stepped forward like a king surveying conquered land. Calm. Calculated. Deadly.

"Did you really think I didn't know?" he said, voice low and mocking. "You stupid little girl. You think I'd let him protect you without checking who he really was?"

He nodded to his men.

"Take him out. Now."

"Don't you fucking dare touch her!" Ghost barked, his voice shaking the windows. "Massimo, I swear.."

Massimo just laughed, the kind of laugh that curdled blood.

"You don't get to make threats anymore, soldier."

The men dragged Simon out by force. His boots scraped against the marble. He fought, violently, but the numbers were against him.

"ROSE!" he shouted as the door slammed shut behind him.

His roars echoed through the hallway, bouncing off cold walls and luxury chandeliers.

He was tossed into the courtyard, the garden's eerie stillness now a prison. A rifle butt cracked across his back, making him stumble onto one knee.

"Fucking cowards-" he growled, blood in his mouth.

He tried to stand.

That's when he heard it.

Shattering glass.

Then,

"NO, NO, PLEASE STOP!" Rose's scream pierced the air like a knife. "LET GO OF ME, DON'T.."

Another crash. Something heavy.

Simon froze.

"Don't do this, Massimo!" her voice broke. "I'll do whatever you want, just don't hurt me.."

A wet, cruel smack followed. Then another scream.

Simon snapped.

"ROSE!!" he bellowed, pushing against the guards holding him. "You son of a...LET ME GO!"

The guards tried to restrain him, but Simon lunged forward, teeth clenched, veins bulging in his neck. A wild animal, unhinged, desperate.

One of them hit him with the butt of his rifle again, hard, but Ghost didn't flinch this time.

His voice cracked as he roared again, throat raw.

"NOOO...!"

More sounds from inside, furniture breaking, glass exploding, a scream so guttural and broken it made Simon's knees shake.

His eyes burned. His breath hitched.

He used to bully her. Push her buttons. Make her cry. He used to think he was the monster.

But this?

This was hell.

And hearing her scream like that, because of someone else, because he couldn't protect her..

It broke something inside him.

Tears welled in his eyes, hot and unrelenting. Rage clawed at his throat like wildfire.

"I swear to God..." he whispered, chest heaving, "I will kill you, Massimo. I'll burn this place to the fucking ground..."

His voice cracked again, helpless, furious.

He collapsed to his knees, blood dripping from his lip, fists pounding the grass beneath him.

But inside?

He could still hear her cries.

And that hurt more than any blow they could land.

And then....

Silence.

A silence so thick, it rang in Ghost's ears louder than the chaos that had come before.

Then...

The door creaked open.

Massimo strolled out slowly, his designer shoes tapping lightly against the marble floor as if nothing had happened. He was adjusting the cuffs of his pristine white shirt, his tie hanging loosely around his neck. He lazily buckled his belt, completely at ease.

Simon's muscles tensed under the crushing grip of four armed men barely holding him back.

He strained forward like a beast ready to lunge, every tendon in his neck flexed, every breath a growl.

"You sick fuck, what did you do to her?" Simon spat, voice low and venomous.

Massimo stopped, smoothed down his cuffs, and gave Ghost a slow, triumphant smile.

"What didn't I do, Ghost?" he said, with a devilish wink. "She cries so pretty, doesn't she?"

Ghost surged forward with a snarl, almost lifting two of the guards off their feet as he tried to break free.

"I'LL KILL YOU!"

The guards grunted, struggling to hold him back as Simon's boots scraped against the courtyard stones.

Massimo tilted his head, amused.

"Easy, soldier. You're just the help, remember? A glorified babysitter in a skull mask."

He leaned closer, just out of reach.

"It's not your job to fall in love with the merchandise."

Simon's teeth ground together until his jaw ached. His heart was pounding like a war drum, blood surging with rage and horror.

"If she's hurt, if you touched her, I swear, Massimo, I'll gut you like a pig."

Massimo just clicked his tongue.

"You know, I almost believe you. That look in your eyes... adorable. Like you actually care."

He stepped back, brushing invisible dust from his jacket.

"You're soft, Ghost. Too soft for this world. She'll break you."

And with that, he turned his back and walked off, calm, slow, confident.

Simon's fists clenched so tight his nails dug into his palms. The second the guards slightly adjusted their hold, he threw his entire weight forward, twisting one wrist free.

"ROSE!!" he yelled. "I'm coming, hang on!"

The guards wrestled him back into submission, dragging him down by brute force.

But Ghost didn't care.

He had only one thought left in his head.

Get to her. Now.

He didn't care about the mission. About exposure. About rules.

Nothing mattered but her.

And if Massimo had laid a hand on her,

Then God have mercy on every man in this building.

Because Simon Riley wouldn't.

The moment the guards slipped, he was gone.

Ghost broke loose like a hurricane, knocking one out cold with a single elbow, sending the others stumbling with swift, brutal strikes. Rage fuelled him. His fists no longer hesitated. His heart was a thunderstorm.

He stormed through the corridors of the mansion, booted feet slamming against polished marble floors. His shoulder smashed through the door,

And then he stopped.

His breath caught.

Everything inside him shattered.

The room looked like a war zone. Shattered glass lay scattered across the floor like broken stars. A lamp was overturned. The heavy velvet drapes had been ripped from their hooks. Chairs upended. Blood smeared faintly across the white bed sheets like a cruel signature.

And on the bed,

Rose.

She was tangled in the silken sheets, her designer gown ripped down the shoulder, barely clinging to her fragile frame. Her skin was mottled with bruises, deep purples and reds painting her arms, her thigh. Her lower lip was split, blood dried at the corner of her mouth. Her mascara trailing dark rivers down her porcelain skin.

She looked like she had been dragged through hell.

But worse than the physical devastation...

Her eyes were vacant.

Wide open, staring at nothing. Her chest rose and fell, barely. She didn't even flinch when he entered.

Simon's heart dropped. Everything in him stopped.

"Rose..." he whispered, voice broken, a tremble in his throat.

He approached her slowly, as if afraid he'd wake her from a nightmare, or fall into one himself.

His knees hit the floor beside the bed. His hands, his bloody, shaking hands, hovered just inches above her, not daring to touch.

"I'm here. I'm here now..."

He gently reached for her wrist, fingers trembling as he checked her pulse. Relief flooded his system when he felt it, weak, but there. She was alive.

His thumb brushed her wrist tenderly. She didn't move. Didn't blink. Only a shallow breath escaped her parted lips.

"Rose... I'm sorry," he choked. "I should've gotten here sooner. I should've protected you."

He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, carefully, gently, as if she might shatter into dust.

"You don't deserve this," he whispered, voice raw. "Not you. Not ever."

He sat there for what felt like eternity, just watching her, mourning her, his jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

"He's not walking out of here alive," he finally growled. "I swear on everything, Rose... I'm going to end him."

But first, she. Needed. Him.

Ghost stood up, pulling off his tactical jacket and draping it over her broken body. He didn't look away from her, not even once.

Then he spoke softly.

"You're safe now. I'm not leaving you."

He picked up the radio clipped to his gear.

"This is Lieutenant Riley, codename Ghost. Code Black. Lockdown on target location. All Task Force 141 units, move in. I repeat, move in. We are green for assault."

A pause.

"And bring medical. I've got a civilian in critical."

He set the radio down and turned back to her.

"I've got you, Rose."

And for the first time since she was a teenager...

Simon Riley meant it.

[ltash]

"Wicked" Pt-3

SimonGhostRileyxf!"Rose"reader

From her highschool bully to her wicked bodyguard, from Simon to Ghost.

Palm Jumeirah, Dubai - Midnight.

The lights inside the mansion flickered, once-just a glitch, a flutter of voltage-but Rose's pulse skipped all the same. It always did now. The walls felt too close. The air, too quiet. No house this beautiful should feel like a cage, but hers did. Behind its manicured gardens and imported marble, the mansion wasn't a home. It was a gilded prison.

Massimo had made sure of that.

She hadn't been allowed to leave in weeks. Her phone was replaced. Her laptop filtered. The staff now wore polite smiles that never met their eyes. Rose had grown used to surveillance: the cameras hidden in chandeliers, the microphones embedded in vent grilles, the locks that clicked shut when they weren't supposed to.

But she still had one ghost left in the machine.

She padded barefoot into the darkened study, the only room she was never searched in. Inside the antique desk drawer was a tiny circuit board connected to a hidden port-one she'd built herself back when she still had freedom. It looked like a piece of the HVAC system, but under the hood was a different story.

She was about to use her only remaining ally: an old AI security system she had personally installed before her staff were replaced. It's disguised under the house's climate control and lighting apps-Massimo's men never even noticed it.

Late at night, she writes a command.

A hidden SOS, encrypted and buried under code.

She can't name herself, can't give details.

Just:

Her fingers trembled as she typed into the dim screen.

>High-value civilian. Palm Jumeirah. Hostile containment. Request immediate covert extraction.

She uploads it to an old abandoned GitHub repo registered under a pseudonym she once shared with a boy who used to sit at the back of her chemistry class.

Simon Riley.

The message was anonymous. There was no name, no coordinates. Just metadata buried in lines of an old GitHub repository registered under a long-forgotten pseudonym.

A joke. A nickname from school. One she had once shared with a boy who never smiled.

She didn't even know if he was still alive.

She hit send.

And hoped the wind still remembered her name.

Location: Undisclosed SAS Safehouse, Northern England

Simon was SAS now. Special Forces.

Callsign: Ghost.

The alert came through on a cold Thursday night.

He monitors that GitHub repo out of habit. It's nothing but sentiment, a scar he keeps reopening.

He hasn't checked it in years.

Until he does.

Simon Riley sat in the quiet glow of his monitor, the rain painting war patterns against the window behind him. He barely touched the internet. Except for this.

He hadn't checked the repo in years. It was a dead habit, something he did every few months. Nostalgia with no reward.

Until he saw it.

> Last push: 2 hours ago.

Encrypted within the code wasn't just a distress call.

It was her.

Rose.

He didn't breathe for nearly a full minute.

Ghost stood slowly, fingers curling into fists as a cold burn lit up in his chest. He hadn't heard her name since he'd buried it. Since the night he left without a goodbye.

His blood runs cold.

Encrypted in the code is a name he hasn't heard in half a decade:

"Rose."

He goes to his superiors.

The request is unofficial. Shadow ops.

But the words hostile containment and high-value civilian raise flags.

It gets buried under a private bodyguard detail ordered by a powerful British defense ally with silent interest in Massimo's dealings.

No name. No address. Just Palm Jumeirah, high-value civilian, hostile containment.

Enough for an unofficial op.

And the name that gets assigned?

Lieutenant Simon Riley.

His name was the first one on the assignment.

48 Hours Later a black SUV rolled past the iron gates like it belonged there.

Rose stood in her hallway, arms wrapped around herself, watching from behind the curtains.

One man stepped out. Alone.

Massimo's guards stood straighter.

Tall. Broad. Black tactical gear that looked too sharp for Dubai's heat. A skull mask covering his face, balaclava beneath it. His eyes were cold, unreadable. Like winter.

He didn't speak as he passed the guards. Just handed a sealed letter.

Authorization for close protection detail.

One of Massimo's men, it said.

Rose didn't buy it. But she didn't argue.

She stood at the top of the stairs as he entered, heart hammering.

He looked up at her.

And she, she froze.

There was something about him.

Something terrifying and familiar.

"Who are you?" she whispered.

He stopped just a few steps from her, the skull mask gleaming under the crystal chandelier.

"Ghost," he said. Just that.

The name tasted like ash.

Her voice trembled. "You're one of Massimo's men?"

"Something like that," he answered. Low. Controlled. British accent like frostbite.

She swallowed. The fear in her blood was real. She'd seen hitmen. Thugs. Brutes.

But this one was different.

An Alpha among the wolves.

Massive, silent, lethal.

The black cargo pants hugged his powerful thighs like a sculptor's sketch in motion. Every inch of him said: do not cross.

She stepped back as he approached. He didn't follow.

"You don't have to be afraid of me," Ghost said quietly, almost too softly for a man like him.

But she was.

Terrified.

Because deep inside her, something screamed that she knew him.

And that scared her more than anything else.

The mansion was quiet. Too quiet. Not the peace of luxury, but the silence of surveillance, the kind of silence that watches you breathe.

Ghost stood by the edge of the marble balcony, framed by the dim amber of Dubai’s dying sun. The call had come. The assignment given. No backup, no fanfare, just a flight, a briefing, a skull mask, and a destination: Palm Jumeirah.

He hadn’t expected it to be real. The message hidden in the GitHub code had been too poetic to believe. Too her.

But it was real.

Rose was here.

And she was in trouble.

48 Hours Earlier, She had stared at the blinking cursor for what felt like hours.

> "High-value civilian. Palm Jumeirah. Hostile containment. Request immediate covert extraction."

No names. No cry for help. No traceable language.

Just enough to mean something, to the right person.

Rose encrypted the text in base-64, nested it into an update in an abandoned GitHub repository linked to a fake climate control API, something she and Simon had once joked about building back in school. Back when he was still just Simon. Before he disappeared like mist.

She hit commit.

And prayed.

Now...

The skull mask stepped through the threshold like a shadow that had grown legs. Black tactical gear. Gloves. Thick black cargo pants that stretched over thighs built like war machines. Combat boots that echoed like the ticking of an ending.

The guards nodded, not questioning his clearance. Massimo trusted him now. The cover had been placed well.

She was in the living room. Pale as bone, curled up in a silk robe on the ivory settee.

She looked up, and froze.

The skull.

The mask.

The height.

The weight of him was a presence.

“Who are you?” she asked, voice small, breaking.

He stood still.

"Name's Ghost," he said finally, voice deep and northern, cracked like winter pavement. "Massimo brought me in for security. I’m here to watch you."

Her brows creased, fear threading through the delicate angles of her face. “I don’t need another one of his men watching me.”

He tilted his head, slowly.

“No offense, but I’m not one of his men.”

Her throat worked. She stood, slowly. The robe fell just enough to show a bruise. Faint. But there.

His jaw ticked under the mask.

“I don’t trust anyone,” she whispered.

“Good,” he said. “That means you’re not stupid.”

A beat passed. The chandelier hummed above them.

She turned away, but not before he saw the tremble in her hands.

He had to earn her trust. Carefully. Quietly. Not with the truth, because the truth was dangerous. To both of them.

Not yet.

So he watched. And waited. And followed. Like a loyal shadow.

Simon Riley was gone.

There was only Ghost now.

And she didn’t know him.

Not yet.

But soon, she would.

The sun bled orange into the Gulf, casting golden ripples across the water as the massive white yacht sliced through the marina like a predator in silk. Palm Jumeirah, glittering like a crown in the ocean, had seen its fair share of luxury, but even here, the arrival of Don Massimo Toricelli turned heads.

Ghost watched from the top floor of the mansion through a sliver in the blackout curtain. He recognized the yacht, custom-built, three decks, helipad, and a private lounge with imported marble flooring. He’d studied it in the brief.

His yacht, a gleaming, multi-million dollar Leviathan, rocked gently in the turquoise water, tethered just off the private dock of her Palm Jumeirah estate. It gleamed like his ego, always visible, always looming.

Massimo was coming.

And that meant trouble.

The Italian stepped off the yacht with the confidence of a man who owned the world and everything in it. Black suit sharp enough to cut, sunglasses shielding eyes that never missed a detail.

The black Maserati had barely stopped outside the mansion before Massimo Toricelli stepped out, flanked by his two most loyal bodyguards. He wore his usual armour of a designer three-piece suit, sunglasses despite the low golden sun, and that chilling smirk that made Rose’s stomach turn. The man smelled of cologne and control.

He carried a box in his hand. Velvet black. The kind of box that didn’t contain anything simple.

Rose was summoned to the lobby. Always summoned, never invited.

Inside the mansion, Rose was being prepped. She didn’t want to go downstairs, Ghost could see it in her face. Her robe was replaced by a floor-length designer dress, her makeup immaculate. A doll on display.

She descended the marble staircase slowly, her every step echoing in the grand, hollow luxury of the mansion she couldn't escape. The lobby was vast, double height ceilings, Italian chandeliers, crystal vases she didn’t pick, all curated to reflect a life she no longer had control over.

He stood in the corner of the marble lobby, arms crossed, skull mask reflecting the light from the chandelier above. Every nerve in his body burned.

Then the door opened.

Massimo entered like a storm in human skin.

Massimo sat in one of the velvet armchairs like he owned the place. Because he did. Or at least, he owned the cage around her.

"Bellissima," he purred, his voice smooth and poisonous. “Dubai suits you.”

Rose managed a smile, tight, hollow. “Massimo.”

Ghost stood in the corner, near the mirrored console table. He was motionless, silent, a black sentinel in full tactical gear. Skull mask on. Hands behind his back. The perfect blend of menace and restraint.

Massimo glanced at him once, indifferent. "You can leave us."

Ghost didn’t move.

Rose lifted her chin. "He stays."

Massimo gave a faint chuckle and gestured dismissively. "As you wish, tesoro."

He reached into a bag one of his men handed him and pulled out a velvet box.

"Cartier," he said simply, like it was an apology. "For your good behavior."

She took it with stiff fingers, murmured a thank you that made her mouth taste like ash. The necklace inside was encrusted with diamonds. Cold. Lifeless. Like a chain pretending to be a gift.

Ghost’s hands curled into fists in the shadow of his sleeves.

Massimo’s eyes flicked toward him.

“And you must be the new shadow. What do they call you? Phantom? Skull?”

Ghost didn’t move.

“Ghost.”

Massimo chuckled. “Fitting. Let’s hope you’re as loyal as the last one.”

Rose shifted, her discomfort palpable. Ghost could feel it in her silence.

Massimo turned his attention back to her. “I’ve missed you. We’ll have dinner this weekend. I’ll have the chef flown in from Florence. You’ll wear the necklace.”

He leaned in closer, voice a whisper of threat and lust. “Say yes.”

She didn’t answer. Just nodded.

Massimo leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "You look tired. Are they feeding you well? Are you sleeping?"

Rose said nothing.

He smiled wider. "Still so stubborn. That’s what I like about you. We’ll talk again soon."

Massimo straightened, pleased with himself.

“Until then, cara mia.”

And then he stood. Kissed the air beside her cheek.

Left as quickly as he arrived.

He left the box in her hands and turned, his coat swaying as he walked out. The doors shut behind him.

Only then did Rose exhale.

Ghost stayed still. Watching. Planning. Rage crawling up his spine like wildfire.

He couldn’t move. Not yet.

He hadn’t called Task Force 141.

Because this wasn’t the moment.

But it was coming.

And when it did, Massimo wouldn’t walk away.

The moment the double doors shut and his footsteps faded, she turned and ascended the stairs quickly, almost running.

Ghost followed, his boots quiet behind her.

She reached her bedroom, the velvet box still clutched in her hand like it had burned her.

Once inside, she hurled it across the room. The lid snapped open. The necklace hit the floor with a sharp, cold clatter, scattering light across the marble.

She sat down beside it. On the floor. In her silk gown. Head bowed, fists clenched, tears pooling in her eyes like they had nowhere else to go.

Ghost stood by the door. Watching. Silent.

She didn’t notice when he stepped closer.

Until he knelt down beside her.

"You don't have to do what he says," he said softly.

She looked up, startled.

He reached forward, hesitantly, almost reverently, and wiped the tear trailing down her cheek with a gloved thumb.

Her breath hitched.

And then...

He extended his hand.

Palm up.

The same way she had, years ago, trembling in a glittering gymnasium, her heart in her throat as she offered her hand to a boy who never took it.

"You don't have to deal with this alone," he said gently.

Her eyes widened.

She stared at the hand. At the shape of it. The calloused palm. The curve of his fingers. So familiar.

Her voice was barely a whisper. "Simon...?"

He didn’t say anything at first.

Just nodded.

The silence cracked around them like thunder.

Her lips parted, her chest rising with a thousand emotions she couldn’t name.

He slowly removed the mask.

And there he was.

Simon Riley.

Older. Harder. Scarred. But still him.

His eyes locked onto hers.

"I came back for you, Rose."

And this time, when she took his hand, he didn’t let go.

[ltash]

"Wicked" pt-2

SimonGhostRileyxf!"Rose"reader

From her highschool bully to her wicked bodyguard, from Simon to Ghost.

"It's tender. It's raw. It's that moment in the story where you realize the boy with the sharp tongue is just trying to survive."

The gymnasium didn't look like a warzone for once. Twinkling fairy lights. Shimmering paper decorations. Music thudding like a heartbeat through the floor. Everyone dressed like they believed, just for one night, things could be good.

They spun in circles under cheap strobe lights.

Laughter, perfume, sweaty palms. Girls in pastel dresses and boys with wrinkled suits. A hundred little moments folding into each other like the ending of a teen film that didn't know it was lying.

Everyone was dancing.

Everyone but him.

Simon Riley stood in the far corner like he'd been carved from stone. Black suit, no tie. Sleeves rolled. Hair slicked back like he hadn't meant to care, but couldn't help looking sharp anyway.

No one came near.

Even now, especially now, he carried the kind of silence that made people nervous. Like a grenade with the pin half-pulled. Boys nodded at him from across the room, girls glanced and then looked away too quickly.

He didn't mind.

He was used to being the ghost in the room.

Used to watching Tommy from a distance, his younger brother in the center of a circle of friends, laughing like nothing had ever hurt him. Like he hadn't grown up in the same house with fists for lullabies.

Simon's jaw tightened.

He turned his gaze to the floor, pretending not to hear the laughter.

Pretending he wasn't waiting for it all to end.

"Why are you always like this?"

The voice startled him, soft, sure, like it wasn't afraid of him.

He looked up.

Rose.

She stood a few feet away. Pale blue dress, hair pinned with tiny silver stars. Small. Gorgeous. Out of place and yet, somehow, the moment.

She looked at him like she wasn't sure why she'd come over, only that she couldn't not.

Simon exhaled a slow breath through his nose. "Like what?"

"You know," she said gently, stepping closer, "Alone. Angry. Like you want everyone to stay away, but you hate being left out."

His mouth twisted into something between a smirk and a wince.

"You've been watching me?"

"I've got eyes, Riley. Doesn't take a genius."

He looked away. "Don't worry about it."

"Too late," she said. "I already do."

He didn't speak for a moment.

Didn't move.

The music pulsed around them like a heartbeat neither of them wanted to claim.

Rose's voice dropped. "You're not just mean. You're hurting. I can tell."

Simon laughed. Quiet and bitter. "That what you think?"

"It's what I see." Her voice didn't shake, even though her hands were clutching her dress like she was afraid of his answer.

"Then maybe you're seeing it wrong," he said, eyes fixed on the glittering floor. "Maybe I'm just broken. Maybe I'm just built this way."

"You're not."

He looked at her now. Really looked.

Her dark eyes were so wide, so painfully soft, and something in his chest twitched.

"You don't know me," he said. But it wasn't cruel. It was tired.

"Then tell me," she said.

He blinked.

A long pause.

Then his gaze dropped again, jaw clenched so hard the muscles jumped. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other like he wanted to leave his own skin.

"...My dad," he muttered finally, voice rough. "He's not... He's not the man people think."

Rose didn't breathe.

Simon swallowed. Hard.

"He's hit my mum. He's hit me. Tommy." His voice went quiet again. "For years. And no one stopped him. No one saw. And now I don't know how to stop being what he made me."

The confession hung in the air like smoke.

Rose's heart cracked in places she didn't know existed.

She stepped closer.

Close enough to feel his breath.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

Simon flinched like he didn't know what to do with kindness.

"I didn't tell you so you'd feel sorry," he said, backing off a little. Walls snapping back up. "It doesn't matter now anyway. I've already fucked it all up."

"It's not too late," she said, her voice steady.

Simon looked at her, really looked at her. His brow softened, just a fraction.

"You're brave, Rose," he said. "You always were. Even when you were scared."

She gave a small, sad smile. "You don't have to be alone tonight, you know."

He shook his head once. "I wouldn't know what to do with not alone."

She held out her hand.

Didn't say anything else.

Just waited.

Simon didn't take it.

But he didn't walk away either.

And maybe that was something.

Maybe that was everything.

The music faded into the background , muffled bass, the echo of laughter and heels on the gym floor. But for a moment, time stopped.

Rose stood there, hand extended.

Not shaking. Not begging.

Just waiting.

And Simon looked at it like it was a live wire.

His hands stayed at his sides.

He didn't take it.

"I can't," he said quietly. Not cruel. Not cold. Just... honest.

Her smile faltered, just a flicker, but she didn't drop her hand.

"You can," she said. "You just won't."

He looked away again. Toward the door this time. Like if he stared hard enough, maybe he'd already be gone.

"I'm leaving," he said suddenly.

The words hung between them like a blade.

Her hand slowly lowered. "What?"

"British Army," he said, voice flat, eyes locked somewhere over her shoulder. "I enlisted last month."

She blinked. The breath caught in her throat like glass.

"Why?" she whispered, though part of her already knew.

His shoulders shifted. Not a shrug - more like something heavy settling on him again.

"I need out," he said. "Out of this school. Out of that house. Out of this whole damn life."

"And Tommy?" she asked, her voice cracking for the first time. "Your mom?"

His jaw clenched. Hard.

"That's the part that keeps me up," he admitted. "Leaving them. But staying's gonna kill me. And if I stay any longer, I'm gonna turn into him."

She wanted to tell him he was nothing like his father.

She wanted to say there was still time.

That people cared.

That she cared.

But he didn't want comfort.

He wanted escape.

"I don't expect you to understand," he added after a beat. "I just needed someone to know."

Her eyes were wet, but she nodded. Once.

"I do understand," she said softly. "More than you think."

He finally met her gaze again. And in that moment, he looked less like a ghost, and more like a seventeen-year-old boy on the edge of a cliff he'd built himself.

She wanted to reach for him again.

But he was already pulling away.

Already turning.

Already halfway to gone.

"Goodbye, Rose," he murmured.

And then he was gone.

Out the side door. Into the dark. Into the future he hadn't even seen yet.

And Rose?

She stood there under fairy lights that suddenly felt too bright.

With an ache in her chest she didn't have the words for.

Because sometimes the boy who pushed everyone away...

Was just trying to survive in a world that kept telling him to disappear.

Five years had passed.

She hadn't thought about Simon Riley in years.

Not really.

She buried him somewhere between prom night and the letter she never sent. Between the awkward silence of her graduation photo and the last time someone mentioned his name like it was a rumor, not a boy.

He had vanished like a ghost.

She let him.

She was good at pretending things didn't hurt if she wrapped them in silence long enough.

After Simon left,

she never went back to Manchester.

Not really.

Sure, her body stayed for the last few weeks of school, her final exams, her quiet goodbyes, but her soul had already started packing the day he walked away at prom.

She moved to Dubai that summer.

Her parents had been planning it for months, a family opportunity, they said. Bigger dreams. Better life.

A city of glass towers and desert gold.

And she said yes.

Eager, even.

Because anything that took her away from Simon Riley's absence felt like safety.

She told herself she was starting over.

New country. New friends. New version of herself.

But grief doesn't need a visa.

And some boys, no matter how cruel they were, leave shadows you can't scrub off.

Still, she adapted. She always did.

She learned the rhythm of a new place, Arabic coffee at 4 p.m., Marina traffic at 6, rooftop brunches, long silences between calls with old classmates. Everyone had moved on. And so had she.

She smiled in pictures.

She posted stories.

She kept herself polished like the skyline outside her window.

But sometimes,

in the middle of the night,

when the wind howled between the towers like it was lost,

She'd wonder where he was.

Simon.

That boy with the fists like fury and eyes like winter rain.

The boy who never took her hand.

The boy who ran away to save himself and left her holding a thousand unanswered questions.

She wondered if he ever thought of her.

If he ever wrote her name in his mind the way she still wrote his in the margins of her journals.

She never reached out.

Maybe she was scared he wouldn't reply.

Maybe she was more scared he would.

And so life went on.

Until the headline came.

Until the murders.

Until Tommy.

And then everything, every tower she'd built around herself, crumbled like ash.

Because no matter how far she went,

she couldn't outrun the people who made her bleed.

Sun-drenched cliffs, lemon trees in bloom, silk scarves fluttering in sea breeze. A billionaire girl on holiday. A Don with a past soaked in blood. And the kind of silence between them that feels louder than a gunshot.

She was no longer the girl from Manchester.

That girl had burned away long ago, somewhere between heartbreak and rebirth, between grief and grit.

Now, Rose was someone.

The kind of someone who didn't flinch anymore.

The kind of someone who had made her millions before thirty.

The kind of someone who could afford to disappear on a whim.

And so she did.

She went to Portofino for the summer.

To rest.

To breathe.

To stop dreaming about boys with frost-bitten eyes and scars that never faded.

What she didn't know was that he would be there.

Not Simon.

Someone far more dangerous.

Far more... deliberate.

Don Massimo Toricelli.

A name whispered in corridors.

A man who dripped power like cologne.

Sharp suits. Sharper tongue. Eyes like a wolf who knew how to hunt.

She met him at a gallery.

He said her name like it tasted expensive.

She should've known then.

Her multi-million dollar mansion, the crown jewel of the Palm. Walls of glass. Private beach. Armed security. Opulence with a pulse. But safety? That was just an illusion now.

She lived in the biggest mansion on Palm Jumeirah.

The kind you only saw in magazines.

Glass walls, ten bedrooms, imported marble, chandeliers that looked like falling stars.

It was supposed to be her haven.

It became her cage.

It started with shadows in the CCTV footage.

Men in suits parked outside too long.

Unfamiliar calls from Milan. Palermo. Naples.

At first, it was roses.

Always red. Always perfect.

Tucked into her villa's iron gate at dawn like a secret waiting to be found.

At first, it was subtle.

A single rose on the front step.

Fresh. Red. Thornless.

Then another.

And another.

Until they were everywhere, on her doorstep, her window sill, tucked into the wiper blade of her Rolls.

Then came the notes.

Cursive handwriting, inked in Italian.

Things like "Perfection should be protected."

And "You look best when you think no one's watching."

Then came the black boxes.

Wrapped in silk.

Lingerie she never bought. Lace that had never touched her skin, but somehow, the sizing was perfect.

The guards said no one got in.

The cameras said nothing.

But she knew.

She knew someone was watching.

And for a moment just a moment, she let herself believe it was harmless.

But fairy tales lie.

And not all princes save you.

Some cage you.

And then came the voice on the phone.

Low.

Italian.

Like danger dressed in velvet.

"Do you like the gifts, bella?"

"You should smile more. You look lonely in all that gold."

She froze in her own home.

In her kitchen. Her closet. Her bath.

Nothing was sacred anymore.

It was Massimo Toricelli.

The Don she'd brushed shoulders with in Portofino.

The one who watched her like he was reading a book he'd already memorized.

She thought it was a coincidence.

She was wrong.

He wanted her.

Not like a lover.

Like a possession.

"Why me?" she whispered once to the silence.

But silence never answered.

"Run, if you like," Massimo said.

"But I always catch what's mine."

She smashed the phone against the marble floor.

It didn't stop the ringing in her bones.

She didn't know who had sold her name to the underworld.

She only knew one thing:

She had to disappear again.

Because this time,

This time, she wasn't running from a boy who never loved her back.

She was running from a man who swore he did.

And so she tried to leave.

Once.

Got in the car.

Reached the gate.

It wouldn't open.

The guards wouldn't look her in the eye.

Phones didn't work the same way anymore.

Her assistant was gone.

Her staff replaced.

Everyone around her now worked for him.

And suddenly, her empire felt like a mausoleum.

A beautiful, sun-soaked prison.

Her name still glittered in the headlines.

But behind the glass walls, she wasn't Rose the mogul.

She was his prey.

And she didn't know how much longer she could run

when she wasn't allowed to run at all.

[ltash]

Wicked pt-1

"From her highschool bully to her Wicked Bodyguard, from Simon to Ghost."

SimonGhostRileyxF!'Rose"reader

"He liked being the monster more than being the boy who begged for kindness and never got it."

Cold Manchester morning. The scent of wet wool, cheap body spray, and burnt toast clings to the air. The corridors of Manchester Academy hum with tired energy. Fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead. The bell hasn't rung yet, but tension already curls like smoke in the air.

The hallway pulsed with the low roar of early morning chaos-dragged feet, lockers slamming, someone shouting across the stairwell like they had something to prove. Clusters of students moved in slow waves, all polyester uniforms and caffeine-fueled grumbling.

Near the stairwell, a pack of boys lounged against the lockers like wolves waiting for something to pounce on.

Simon Riley was at the center of them.

Seventeen, broad-shouldered, tall enough to look down on almost everyone. His school shirt was half-tucked, his sleeves rolled, and his tie hung loose around his neck like it didn't matter. Because it didn't. Not to him. Not here.

He cracked his knuckles, eyes narrowing.

"She's here," he muttered.

Next to him, his younger brother Tommy perked up, half-listening as he fiddled with the zipper on his backpack.

Through the double doors at the far end of the hallway, she stepped inside.

Rose.

Small. Quiet. Painfully shy.

She was the kind of girl you noticed even when she tried not to be seen. Porcelain skin that almost glowed beneath the cold lighting, big doe eyes that flicked nervously across the hall, and soft lips pressed into a line that always looked a little unsure. Her navy blazer was immaculate, her ribbon-tied curls brushed to perfection, and her shiny loafers clicked softly like she was afraid even her footsteps were too loud.

Simon's mouth curved into something unreadable.

"Little princess," he muttered under his breath, pushing off the locker with ease.

Rose saw him-and she froze. Just for a second. Eyes wide, like a rabbit spotting a fox. Then she dropped her gaze immediately, clutching her books to her chest like armor.

He stepped into her path, cutting her off with casual cruelty.

"Well, if it isn't Her Highness," he said smoothly, voice low and lazy with that distinctive Mancunian bite.

Rose's breath caught in her throat.

"G-Good morning," she whispered, barely meeting his eyes.

Tommy stood a few steps behind, watching silently.

Simon tilted his head. "Didn't think you'd show up today. Thought maybe you melted in the rain."

She shook her head quickly. "I... I don't miss school," she said, voice fragile as tissue paper.

"Of course not," Simon grinned. "Daddy wouldn't like that, would he?"

Rose's eyes dropped to the floor.

Her hands were trembling.

Simon leaned down, his shadow falling over her. "You're awful quiet, y'know. Like a little mouse. Makes a guy wonder what you're hiding behind all that silence."

She swallowed hard, lips parting, but no words came out.

He watched her-closely. How she blinked fast, how her knees bent just slightly like she was debating whether to flee.

Then he said, "Nice bag. What is that-real leather? Bet it cost more than my mum's car."

"I-I have to go," she stammered, stepping around him like walking through fog.

She didn't look back.

Simon watched her retreat-tiny footsteps, shoulders hunched like she could make herself disappear.

Tommy tugged on his sleeve. "She looked scared, Si..."

Simon didn't answer right away.

Just leaned back against the locker again, arms crossed, watching the hallway where she vanished.

"She should be," he said finally, but the smirk didn't quite reach his eyes.

Because even if he didn't understand it yet, even if he'd never admit it out loud-

Something about Rose made his chest feel strange.

And he hated it.

The courtyard behind the cafeteria. The sky is a flat sheet of grey, Manchester's signature. A cold breeze cuts through the air. Most students are huddled in groups, chewing through lukewarm chips and gossip. But tension simmers in one corner like a lit fuse waiting for flame.

Simon Riley was bored and boredom made him dangerous.

He lounged on one of the low concrete benches, legs spread, sleeves rolled up, eyes scanning the yard like a lion watching sheep. His little brother Tommy sat nearby, eating quietly, pretending not to see what was about to unfold.

A smaller Year Eleven boy walked past, spiky hair, oversized backpack, and a stupid grin on his face. He bumped into Simon's knee by accident.

"Oi," Simon said flatly.

The boy paused. "Sorry, mate."

Simon stood.

Towered.

"You bumped into me."

"I said sorry, didn't I?" the boy said, half-laughing, trying to shrug it off.

Wrong move.

Simon's fist connected with the guy's shoulder, shoving him backward hard enough to make him stumble. The sound of trays clattering and conversations dropping filled the air. Everyone turned.

"What was that?" Simon asked, calm as ever, voice like ice. "Didn't quite hear the apology with enough meaning behind it."

The boy straightened, angry now. "What's your problem, Riley? You think you own this place?"

Simon's eyes darkened. "I do."

And then it was all movement.

A sharp right hook. The thud of knuckles against jaw. The boy tried to swing back-missed. Another blow. A shove against the bench. The sound of sneakers scuffing concrete. Someone shouted for a teacher, but no one actually moved. Not yet. Not with him in the middle of it.

At the edge of the yard, near the old stone wall, Rose stood still as a statue.

She had been walking with her lunch tray, quiet as always, eyes downcast-and then she saw him. Heard him. The fight unfolding like a thunderclap just meters away.

Her heart pounded.

Her grip tightened around the tray, knuckles white.

Simon didn't see her watching. He had the boy on the ground now, knees in the gravel, one hand fisting his collar.

"Next time," Simon hissed, "watch where you're bloody going."

"Simon!" Tommy called out quietly, "That's enough-he's done-"

Simon paused. Chest heaving. Jaw tight.

Then he stood up and adjusted his collar like nothing had happened.

The boy scrambled away, wiping blood from his lip. No one helped him. No one dared.

Simon turned, rubbing his bruised knuckles with a calmness that didn't match the violence that just poured out of him.

And that's when he saw her.

Rose.

Frozen. Wide-eyed. Pale.

Their eyes locked across the courtyard.

She didn't speak.

Didn't move.

Just stood there like he might lunge at her next.

Simon's lips parted. For once, words didn't come. He looked at her-not like a predator this time, but like he'd just realized she'd seen a part of him he hadn't meant to show.

He looked away first.

Late afternoon. The halls were mostly empty now, echoes bouncing off lockers as the last stragglers filtered out. The clouds outside had thickened to ash-grey. Rain threatened the windows, casting long, cold shadows across the floor.

The classroom was half-dark.

Chairs stacked on desks. The faint hum of lights overhead. A single window cracked open, letting in the chill and the sound of distant drizzle.

She was there.

Rose.

Alone in the back row. Drowning in silence. Her hair fell like velvet curtains around her face, shoulders hunched as she stared at her notebook without seeing a word.

She was trying to disappear. Again.

Until the door creaked.

Then footsteps, heavy, slow, deliberate.

She didn't even have to look.

She knew.

The door shut with a soft click, like a lock snapping closed.

Simon Riley stepped into the room like he owned it.

Which, in his head, he probably did.

"Didn't think you'd still be here," his voice cut through the air like it was nothing.

He walked between the rows of desks with the lazy confidence of someone who never got told no. Boots scuffing linoleum. Tie loose. Sleeves rolled to the elbows like he was always halfway into a fight.

Rose didn't breathe.

Didn't blink.

Her fingers curled around her pencil like it could save her.

"You always hide out after school," Simon said, stopping next to her desk. "Or is this special?"

She looked up. Just for a second.

His eyes met hers, blue, sharp, tired.

Like a winter sky that never softened.

Her chair scraped as she stood suddenly. Too fast. Too loud. Her bag almost slipped from her shoulder.

"I, I was leaving," she said, barely louder than a whisper. Her voice broke halfway through it.

Simon didn't move.

Didn't raise his voice.

Didn't even touch her.

But he was standing in front of the door.

And that was enough.

He tilted his head, watching her like a puzzle he never wanted to solve.

"Why're you scared of me, Rose?"

She froze.

His tone wasn't cruel.

It was worse.

It was curious.

Vulnerable in a way she wasn't prepared for.

Her lip trembled. Her voice cracked again.

"Because... you terrify me."

And that shattered something.

In the space between them. In the silence that followed.

She didn't wait for him to answer.

Didn't wait for him to laugh. Or smirk. Or say anything cruel.

She just ran.

Out the door.

Down the hallway.

Like her lungs were on fire and the walls were closing in.

Tears blurred her vision as she fled, her breath catching in her throat, her heart loud enough to drown the world.

And Simon?

He stood there.

Alone.

In a room that suddenly felt very quiet.

His jaw clenched. Hands flexed at his sides.

Like he wanted to hit something.

But didn't know what.

It didn't get better. It got worse.

Days blurred into weeks like ink bleeding across wet paper.

The school had stopped pretending they could contain him.

Simon Riley was untouchable.

He didn't care about grades.

Didn't care about detentions.

Didn't care that the principal had called home for the fifth time in a month, his voice almost begging now, like he was afraid of what would happen if they didn't try something.

But nothing worked.

Because nothing could.

Not when Simon looked at every adult like they were a threat.

Not when the bruises on his jaw matched the rage in his knuckles.

Not when Tommy came to school with a split lip and said it was from "football."

Everyone knew it wasn't.

Mr. and Mrs. Riley showed up once, twice maybe.

Stiff suits. Stiff smiles.

Mrs. Riley with too much perfume and too-tight gloves.

Mr. Riley with that look in his eyes like everything was a disappointment, including his sons.

They didn't stay long.

Didn't listen.

Didn't see.

Because if they had, maybe they would've noticed how Tommy stood between them and Simon every time.

Like a shield that kept cracking.

Maybe they would've heard the way Simon's voice changed when his father spoke, quieter. Tighter.

Like a fuse waiting for a match.

Maybe they would've asked why their youngest flinched when a door slammed.

But they didn't.

And Simon?

Simon stopped pretending to be good.

He swaggered down the halls like a hurricane wrapped in a school uniform.

Picked fights in the cafeteria.

Snatched phones, ripped books, tripped boys in the stairwell just because he could.

And no one stopped him.

Because they knew he'd hit back harder.

He always did.

Even Tommy, sweet, tired Tommy, tried. Again and again.

"Si, that's enough."

"Don't do this."

"You're not like him, "

But Simon would just laugh. Or worse, say nothing.

And sometimes he'd snap.

He'd shove Tommy into walls.

He'd curse loud enough to shake the air.

Once, he bloodied his brother's lip so bad, even he looked startled.

And when it was over, when the silence settled like dust after a storm, Simon would look at the mess he made.

And walk away.

Because it was easier to be feared than to be nothing at all.

Because when you grow up in a house built on violence,

Love starts to look like a lie.

And maybe...

He liked being the monster more than being the boy who begged for kindness and never got it.

[ltash]

The Unwanted Wife-last pt

SimonGhostRileyxfemalereader

Warning: 18+, mdni, size kink, p in v, sexual themed, mentions of sex

He came in late, hours after the lights had dimmed, after the ocean had quieted, after you had given up hope that he'd join you.

You were curled up on your side, facing the window, moonlight washing your skin in silver. The silk sheets clung to your legs, your breath steady, soft, pretending to sleep because it hurt less than being awake and waiting.

The bedroom door creaked gently open.

You didn't move.

Footsteps padded in, slow, uncertain.

You heard the low rustle of clothes being removed, the faint jingle of his belt, then the hush of him slipping beneath the covers behind you.

Your heart beat like thunder in your chest.

He didn't say a word.

Didn't touch you.

But the bed dipped under his weight, and the heat of his body ghosted against your back.

You held your breath.

And then, his hand moved.

A light brush.

Fingertips barely grazing your wrist.

Testing.

Waiting.

You turned, slowly, facing him in the dark.

Even without light, you could feel his eyes on you.

Your hand found his.

His fingers threaded with yours.

No words.

No promises.

Just two breaths syncing under the same sheets. Two souls, scarred and searching, lying quietly in the night.

It wasn't love.

Not yet.

But it was something.

And tonight, that was enough.

The first light of dawn filtered through the sheer curtains, brushing over the two bodies tangled beneath soft linen.

Simon stirred first.

His brows furrowed faintly as consciousness crept in, warmth, softness, the steady rise and fall of your breath beneath him.

His arm was wrapped tight around your waist.

His face was buried in your chest, the silken fabric of your camisole warm against his skin.

Your leg was hooked over his, and your lips, barely, just barely, were touching his forehead.

His entire body was caged around yours like it was instinct. Like it was home.

And for a moment... he didn't move.

He listened to your heartbeat.

He felt the softness of your fingers curled lightly into his shirt.

You sighed in your sleep.

Something in his chest shifted.

Unfamiliar. Foreign. Dangerous.

He gently, carefully, untangled himself.

Your body stirred, just slightly, like it didn't want to let go.

He hesitated... then forced himself out of bed.

The floor was cool under his feet as he padded toward the bathroom.

The door clicked softly shut.

The sound of running water filled the silence of the villa.

And on the bed, you turned toward the warmth he left behind, nuzzling into the sheets that still smelled like him, dreaming of the man who never said a word, yet whose touch said everything.

Warm water cascaded down his body, steam curling in the dim light. His hands were braced on the wall of the shower, head bowed, muscles tense under the spray. You stood at the threshold, biting your lip as your eyes traced every line of him, powerful, vulnerable, utterly still.

Slowly, you let your silk nightgown slip from your shoulders. It whispered down your skin, pooling around your ankles in a hush of fabric. You reached for the glass door, cool under your fingertips, and opened it with quiet purpose.

He didn't turn.

But he felt you.

You stepped in, the heat wrapping around you like a second skin. Your arms slid around his waist, hands planting gently on his chest. Your body pressed against his back , soft curves to hard muscle, heart to heart.

He froze.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

But he didn't push you away.

Didn't let go.

And that silence between you? It wasn't rejection this time.

It was surrender.

He slowly turned toward you, water streaming down his face, his eyes darker than you'd ever seen them. Wordless. Intense.

His hand lifted, slow, deliberate, and his fingers found your chin. Tilted it up.

His thumb brushed your lower lip, lingering, tender but possessive.

"You always wanted this," he said, voice low, rough with restraint. "Always wanted me."

You nodded. No words , they would've cracked apart in your throat. You only looked at him, wide-eyed and open, the truth written across every line of you.

And finally, finally, he kissed you.

His mouth claimed yours with a slowness that bordered on reverence, but the hunger beneath it ignited fast. It deepened, spiraled, pulled you under. Passion poured out of him like he'd been holding back for years.

He took your small hands in his, fingers interlacing as if anchoring himself to you, as if letting go now would ruin him.

Then, with a quiet exhale against your mouth, he turned you.

Gently.

But with purpose.

Your back met the cold marble wall, a sharp contrast to the burning heat of him.

His lips didn't leave yours. They moved with growing urgency, hungry, vehement, desperate. Yours matched him, lips parted, bodies pressed tight, nothing held back now.

Tongues tangled, teeth clashed, gasps filled the narrow space between breath and desire.

Saliva mixed in messy kisses, ungraceful, real, raw.

There was nothing restrained anymore.

Just him.

Just you.

Just the storm you'd both finally stopped fighting.

He slowly pulled away, breath heavy, water dripping from his lashes. You gasped softly, finally able to breathe again, but your chest still heaved with everything left unsaid.

His forehead rested against yours, the heat of him grounding you, the moment thick with something deeper than just want.

"You sure you want this?" he asked, voice hoarse , like it cost him something to ask.

You didn't hesitate.

"I want you, Simon," you whispered, your voice barely above the steam curling around you.

And then he was on you again.

His mouth moved down your jaw, open-mouthed kisses hot and wild, trailing fire across your skin. Teeth grazed your neck, just enough to make you shiver, before he bit down gently, nipping at that tender spot beneath your ear.

You gasped again, your fingers digging into his shoulders as he lingered at your throat, sucking the skin slowly, thoroughly. Then he soothed the sting with a slow, wet lick, and the whimper that escaped you was beyond your control.

He dropped lower, breath warm against the top of your chest.

His teeth skimmed the soft swell of your breast , reverent, teasing.

One hand cupped you, holding you in place as his mouth moved to the other. His tongue circled your nipple in lazy, deliberate strokes, soft and slow, until you arched into him, seeking more.

And when he finally sucked, gently, possessively, it wasn't just your body that gave in.

It was everything.

He nipped at your nipple, the sharpness sending a jolt through you, then soothed it instantly with a deep, slow suck that made your knees tremble. His other hand moved to your other breast, thumb and forefinger rolling your nipple between them, coaxing soft, helpless whimpers from your lips.

You clung to him, lost in the rhythm of his mouth and hands, your body already unraveling.

Then he began to trail kisses lower , down your ribs, your stomach, slow, deliberate, worshipful. Each press of his lips burned through the haze of steam and want.

He dropped to his knees.

You barely had time to catch your breath before he lifted one of your thighs and settled it over his shoulder, steadying you with a strong hand at your waist.

His breath warmed the most sensitive part of you, and then his tongue traced a line through your folds, so slow, so precise, it stole the sound from your throat.

You whined, fingers threading through his wet hair, anchoring yourself to him.

Then he lifted your other thigh, locking both over his shoulders, hands grabbing your hips, pinning you against the marble wall.

And then he devoured you.

No hesitation. No mercy.

Tongue moving with practiced, desperate hunger, exploring, tasting, worshipping.

Your hips rolled against his mouth, helpless, your moans echoing in the tiled space, raw and real. Every flick of his tongue, every suck, every slow glide sent you spiraling.

You were his.

Utterly.

And he was going to make sure you felt that with every stroke of his tongue.

"Aaww, babe!" you gasped, helpless and breathless, the words breaking apart on your tongue.

His tongue delved deeper, slipping inside your sweet, sensitive heat while his lips sealed around you, devouring you like he'd been starved for this, for you. Every stroke, every suck, every flick of his tongue sent another ripple through your trembling body.

You were practically sitting on his face now, thighs tight around his head, hips rocking helplessly against his mouth. He held you firm, guiding every desperate movement, his grip unrelenting, like he couldn't stand the idea of letting you go.

Your back arched, spine pressing hard into the cold marble as your head fell back, eyes fluttering shut.

Heat coiled low in your belly, winding tighter and tighter.

Your toes curled.

Your breath stuttered.

And your whole body began to shudder, little shakes starting in your core and spreading outward like waves. Shivers rolled down your spine as he kept going, relentless and tender all at once, like he wanted you to fall apart in his hands , in his mouth.

And God... you were so, so close.

Your fingers tangled tighter in his hair, gripping like it was the only thing keeping you from floating away. Every swirl of his tongue, every wet, open-mouthed kiss against your core pushed you closer, impossibly closer.

"Simon!" you choked out, voice cracking, high and desperate. "I, I'm gonna..."

But he didn't stop.

If anything, he deepened his grip, thumbs digging into your hips, holding you in place as his tongue moved faster, more precise, like he knew every part of you, every reaction, every sweet spot.

You were grinding against him now, helpless and wild, body no longer yours to command. Your thighs trembled around his head, your spine arched off the wall, and the heat inside you finally snapped.

You shattered.

A cry ripped from your throat, raw, broken, beautiful.

Your body convulsed against him, every muscle tightening, toes curling, hips jerking uncontrollably as wave after wave of pleasure tore through you. Your vision blurred, and the only thing anchoring you to this world was the solid weight of his hands and the relentless devotion of his mouth.

Even as you came undone, he kept going , slower now, gentler, kissing you through the aftershocks, soft licks that made you twitch and gasp with overstimulation.

Finally, your body went limp against the wall, breath ragged, heart pounding like it wanted to escape your chest.

And only then did he pull back, lifting his head slowly.

His lips were wet. His eyes, dark, tender, full of something deeper than lust , locked with yours as he rose to his feet.

He leaned in, forehead resting gently against yours, your breaths mingling in the steam.

"You taste like heaven," he whispered, voice thick with awe. "And you're mine."

You were still catching your breath, body limp against the marble, heart pounding in your chest like a war drum when he kissed you again.

Slow this time.

Not rushed or hungry, but deep, claiming, full of everything he'd just shown you with his mouth. You could taste yourself on his lips, and it only made the kiss filthier... more intoxicating.

His hands trailed down your sides, grounding you, caressing the soft curve of your waist, then your thighs. He lifted you with ease, pressing your back more firmly against the slick wall. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, legs instinctively locking around his waist, clinging to him like you belonged there, like you always had.

He reached between you, and you felt him, hard, hot, heavy, brushing against your entrance.

"Simon..." you whispered, the name barely audible, breath catching in your throat.

His eyes locked with yours, wild and soft all at once. "I've got you," he murmured, one hand cradling the back of your head like you were something fragile, precious. "Always."

Then he eased into you.

Slowly.

Thick and deep.

You gasped, head falling against his shoulder, nails digging into his back as your walls stretched to accommodate him. He didn't rush, he filled you inch by inch, watching every reaction, every twitch of your body, every change in your breath.

The moment he was fully inside, both of you stilled, foreheads pressed together, hearts pounding in sync.

You felt everything.

Not just the pleasure. Not just the heat.

But the connection.

The unspoken need. The years of restraint finally breaking loose.

He pulled back, then thrust in again , slow, deliberate, with purpose. Every movement was controlled, deep, worshipful. He wasn't just fucking you.

He was making love to you.

The way his hand cupped your jaw, the way his mouth brushed yours between gasps, the way your names fell from each other's lips like promises, it was all too much. And still, not enough.

You rolled your hips to meet his, moaning softly into his neck as he picked up the pace, each thrust now heavier, deeper, more desperate. The sound of wet skin, the soft slap of bodies, the echoes of your shared pleasure filled the steamy space.

You could feel it building again, a deeper, more powerful wave rising inside you.

And you knew he felt it too.

Your second climax was hovering, just out of reach, when he slowed his pace, pulling back until only the tip of him remained inside.

You whimpered, clenching around nothing.

"Shhh," he murmured against your lips, voice low and ragged. "Not done with you yet."

Gently, he slid out of you. Your body trembled from the loss, but he was already guiding you, turning you slowly to face the glass wall of the shower, water still cascading down both your bodies. Your palms pressed to the slick surface, chest heaving, cheek against the cool glass.

Then you felt him behind you, warm, solid, overwhelming.

He slid one hand over yours, pressing it more firmly to the glass. His other followed, intertwining his fingers with yours, pinning them both there. His chest was flush with your back, and his length nudged against your entrance once more.

And then, slowly, deeply, he pushed back inside.

You gasped, your forehead dropping forward, eyes fluttering closed as the stretch pulled a deep, aching moan from your throat. He filled you so completely it was almost too much, but it wasn't. It was perfect.

Your eyes darted back to catch a glimpse of him, wet hair falling over his forehead, jaw clenched, his gaze locked on the way your bodies met.

"Fuck... look at you," he growled, his voice dark silk in your ear. "Taking me so well... like you were made for this. Made for me."

You whimpered, grinding back instinctively, and he rewarded you with a sharp, deep thrust that made your knees buckle.

He caught you easily, strong arms bracing your body, hips rolling into you again and again, deeper, harder, but still controlled. Still his rhythm.

"You love this, don't you?" he whispered, filthy and reverent at the same time. "Being stretched open on my cock, crying for it..."

His teeth scraped your shoulder.

"You're mine, baby. Say it."

"Yours," you moaned, so soft and wrecked, "I'm yours."

"Damn right."

He slammed into you again, and again, never letting your hands go, never pulling too far away. Every thrust sent sparks through your belly, heat coiling tight in your core once more. You were close, so close, and the sound of his voice, the filth he spoke in your ear, the feeling of him inside you...

You were going to break again.

And he wanted you to.

And he did.

He broke you, completely, beautifully.

Your body tensed, every muscle tightening as the orgasm tore through you like lightning. You screamed his name, forehead pressed to the glass, legs shaking violently as your world fractured into blinding white heat.

And behind you, he grunted, low, guttural, hips driving deep one last time as he spilled inside you, warmth flooding your core, pulsing with every throb of him.

You both trembled, locked together in the steam and the silence and the staggering aftershock.

His cum trickled down your thighs, thick and hot, mixing with water as it streamed down your legs. Your body sagged forward, weak and overwhelmed, the edges of your vision fading to black, not from fear, but from complete surrender.

But he caught you.

Before you could fall, before the darkness took you, his arms wrapped around you from behind, strong and steady. He held you up, hands gentle now, cradling you like something sacred.

"Got you," he whispered, his lips against your damp temple. "I've got you, sweetheart. I'm right here."

You were limp in his arms, spent and shivering, but safe.

He turned the water down, pressing soft kisses to your shoulder, your neck, your cheek. One hand stayed on your belly, grounding you, the other moved to brush the wet hair from your face.

"You okay?" he murmured, voice raw but soft, full of something so deep it made your chest ache.

You nodded faintly, resting your head back against his shoulder, tears mixing with the water.

Warm.

Safe.

His.

All parts in this.

[ltash]

The Unwanted Wife pt-4

SimonGhostRileyxFemaleReader

When want becomes obsession, obsession turns into madness

The private jet hummed softly, a low purr against the velvet hush of the sky. You reclined in your cream leather seat, legs crossed in designer loungewear that still looked runway-ready, your cashmere wrap falling off one shoulder just enough to hint at elegance without effort. Diamond studs glinted in your ears. Barely-there gloss on your lips.

You were the picture of perfection.

Across from you sat Simon.

Black tee. Tactical cargo pants. Arms crossed, eyes fixed on the window like he’d rather jump out of it than be here.

You sipped your mimosa slowly, watching him over the rim of the crystal flute.

He hadn’t said a word since takeoff.

“How long do you plan to act like I dragged you here at gunpoint?” you asked sweetly.

His gaze didn’t move. “Didn’t have much of a choice.”

You smirked, leaning back. “Well, you did say ‘I do.’ Or maybe you’ve forgotten that part.”

He looked at you then, sharp, cold, but not unfeeling. Just... guarded.

You met his stare without flinching. “Relax, Ghost. I’m not gonna seduce you thirty thousand feet above the Atlantic.”

A pause.

“Unless you want me to.”

His jaw tightened.

You grinned and picked up your tablet. “I have the entire Turks and Caicos itinerary right here. Candlelit dinners. Private yacht. Sunset horseback riding, yes, I made sure they'd have horses tall enough for you.”

Silence.

You glanced at him again.

“You might as well try to enjoy this. I don’t like sulking husbands. And you don’t strike me as the sulking type.”

He still didn’t speak.

But his fingers tapped once, then twice, against the armrest.

Tiny cracks in the wall.

And you saw them.

You pulled your blanket up, curling delicately into the seat. “Wake me when you’re ready to start acting like my husband,” you whispered, eyes fluttering closed with a faint smile.

He watched you for a long while, his expression unreadable.

Then slowly… he reached for his coffee.

And kept watching.

The hum of the jet was almost hypnotic.

You pretended to sleep, lashes resting like feathers against your cheeks, your breathing even. But you weren’t sleeping, not really. You were waiting. Waiting for him to say something. Do something. React in any way that proved he still saw you.

Simon sat across from you, silent as ever. Arms folded, muscles tense, jaw locked like he was holding back an entire war behind his tongue.

You shifted slightly, letting your blanket fall just enough to expose the smooth curve of your shoulder. A calculated accident.

He noticed.

Of course he did.

You peeked through your lashes, just in time to catch the flicker in his eyes before he tore them away and focused on the window again. But the grip on his armrest tightened. His throat bobbed with a hard swallow.

“You keep staring at that window like you’re planning to jump,” you murmured, breaking the silence.

He exhaled through his nose. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“I’d prefer you here,” you said, uncurling slowly, like a cat stretching in sunlight. “You’re prettier to look at than clouds.”

That earned a look. Flat. Dry. But definitely a look.

You leaned forward slightly, elbows on your knees, voice softer now. “You know... you could try. Just try. Maybe pretend for one week that this marriage isn’t some punishment.”

He didn’t reply.

You sighed and turned your face away, folding your arms, staring at nothing. “I hate this,” you admitted quietly. “Being ignored. Like I’m nothing more than a burden.”

For a second, just one, his expression cracked.

“Don’t say that,” he muttered, barely above a whisper.

Your eyes flicked to him, sharp. “Then don’t treat me like that.”

The tension between you coiled like a wire pulled tight.

He looked at you fully then. “You wanted this.”

You straightened, chin high. “I wanted you. There’s a difference.”

Silence.

The kind that felt like a scream muffled behind thick glass.

Then the pilot’s voice crackled gently through the intercom.

“ETA to Providenciales: 1 hour, 20 minutes. Weather is clear.”

You didn’t say a word after that. Neither did he.

But this time, when your head lolled to the side and your eyes finally fluttered shut for real…

He kept watching.

Longer than he should’ve.

The villa looked like something torn from the pages of an ultra-exclusive travel magazine, only better. Perched atop a private cliff that kissed the Caribbean Sea, it was all whitewashed walls, sweeping glass doors, and the soft echo of wealth that didn’t need to scream to be heard.

Palm trees swayed in the breeze like they belonged to you. Bougainvillea spilled over stone walls in vibrant pinks and purples, framing the view like a painting.

Inside, it was pure quiet luxury.

Cream linen couches sunk beneath you like clouds. The scent of fresh vanilla, sea salt, and money hung in the air. Every corner was a blend of minimalist design and impossible softness, like someone curated the space knowing exactly how you liked things: elegant, effortless, and impossibly expensive.

The infinity pool melted into the horizon. Just past it, the ocean sparkled like it had secrets.

Your bedroom, your bedroom, was wrapped in floor-to-ceiling windows. White silk sheets. A four-poster bed carved from reclaimed wood, standing like a throne. The marble bathroom had an outdoor rainfall shower shaded by palm leaves, and the walk-in closet could hold a small country.

It wasn’t just a villa.

It was a statement.

And here you were, heels clicking on the travertine floor, sunglasses perched on your nose, and Simon trailing behind you like a shadow dipped in black.

He looked around once, then walked straight to the window, hands on hips, face unreadable.

You watched him.

“You like it?”

He didn’t say anything.

But he didn’t hate it either.

And that… was enough for now.

The dining area of the villa looked like something out of a dream.

Candlelight flickered off crystal, the long marble table set with silver cutlery, tall fluted glasses, and white roses arranged in a low, elegant centerpiece. The scent of saffron and grilled butter lobster drifted through the warm air, sea breeze sweeping in from the open terrace doors.

You made an entrance, of course you did.

Hair swept up in a loose twist, a few strands curling around your face. Your silk slip dress shimmered like poured champagne, hugging every curve effortlessly. Diamond drop earrings. Glossed lips. The tiniest, most tasteful anklet glinting as you stepped barefoot across the polished wood floor.

He was already seated.

Same black tee. Same silent stare. Same unreadable face.

His eyes flicked over you once, jaw tightening ever so slightly.

You smiled, sugar-sweet and wicked.

“Didn’t think you’d actually show,” you murmured, gliding into your seat across from him.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” he replied coolly, pouring himself a glass of still water.

You leaned your elbow on the table, chin resting lightly on your palm. “Still pretending this isn’t a honeymoon?”

He didn’t answer.

The chef came in quietly, bowing his head slightly before lifting the cloches. Lobster tail, truffle risotto, asparagus drizzled in lemon butter. He refilled your glasses and slipped away just as quietly.

The tension between you and Simon? Anything but quiet.

You took a delicate bite, then licked a smudge of sauce from the corner of your mouth, catching his gaze when he flicked his eyes toward you for half a second too long.

“You know,” you said, tilting your head, “I imagined our first dinner as husband and wife going a bit differently.”

He chewed slowly, unfazed. “How’d you imagine it?”

You grinned. “You feeding me strawberries. Whispering things that would make a priest faint.”

He didn’t even blink. “You’re delusional.”

You laughed, letting your fork clink gently against the plate. “And yet… here you are. On a honeymoon. With your delusional wife.”

His silence said enough.

But you caught the corner of his mouth twitch, like he wanted to smirk but refused to give you the satisfaction.

“Eat, Simon,” you said softly. “It’s a long night.”

And maybe it was the wine. Or the candlelight. Or the fact that the villa was yours and his alone.

But for the first time since the wedding, he picked up his fork.

And started to eat.

The night air was warm and thick as you stepped out onto the terrace, the moon casting a silver glow over the villa’s infinity pool. You traced your fingers along the marble railing, heart still fluttering from the dinner’s quiet sparks.

Simon was behind you, silent, steady, every inch the ghost you knew. Then, without warning, his hand was on the wall beside you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his skin. His gaze locked onto yours, dark and unreadable.

You thought maybe tonight would be different. Maybe he’d finally let down the walls.

But now, here you were.

He finally snapped.

After all the lingering looks, the almosts, the silence strung tight like wire, he pressed you back against the cool wall. One hand slammed beside your head. The other wrapped gently, but firmly, around your throat , not to hurt, but to hold you in place, to feel the rapid pulse beneath his palm.

Your eyes locked with his. You leaned up, breath barely brushing his lips, ready to close the distance with a kiss.

But he turned his head, jaw tight.

No.

Your chest rose, sharp with rejection. But you didn’t let go. When he stepped back, you reached, caught his arm from behind. Your forehead pressed against the curve of his bicep, fingers clutching his sleeve like a lifeline.

“Please,” it wasn’t even a word. Just breath, broken and soft.

But he exhaled.

Quietly. Gently.

He peeled your hand off him.

Didn’t look back.

Didn’t give you anything.

Not yet.

The next morning, the villa was wrapped in soft sunlight filtering through gauzy curtains. You found him in the kitchen, quiet, making black coffee with the same focused intensity he brought to every mission.

You leaned casually against the doorway, a mischievous smile playing on your lips. “Coffee for one, or can I tempt you to join me?”

He glanced up, eyes sharp but tired. “You’re going to wear me down if you keep this up.”

You shrugged, stepping closer, the scent of your perfume mixing with the rich aroma of the brew. “Good. I’m patient.”

He didn’t say anything but set two mugs on the counter, motioning for you to sit.

You perched on the edge of the marble island, letting your fingers brush against his as you reached for your cup.

“Tell me something,” you said softly, voice low. “What’s your favorite part of this place?”

He paused, considering.

“Quiet,” he finally said. “No distractions. Just the sea and the sky.”

You smiled, eyes warm. “Then maybe we can find some quiet moments together. No expectations. Just us.”

He looked at you longer this time, a flicker of something unreadable softening his gaze.

And though he didn’t say it aloud, you felt it, the first crack in the wall.

The sun was golden, warm, and lazy over the private beach. The ocean stretched like liquid sapphire, waves sighing against the sand. You walked down the wooden deck barefoot, your silk wrap fluttering behind you.

And then you slipped it off.

The bikini was designer, of course, classic black with gold hardware, sculpted to perfection. It fit like it was made just for you, highlighting every soft curve and sun-kissed detail. Hair up in a loose knot. Diamond anklet still sparkling around your ankle.

Simon was on the lounge chair, book in hand, well, he was reading, until he wasn’t.

His eyes lifted. Froze.

And he didn’t look away.

Not this time.

You didn’t say a word, just walked gracefully past him toward the water, every step deliberate. You felt his gaze burn across your back, trailing the lines of your body like a slow caress.

You turned slightly before stepping into the sea, just enough to catch his eyes.

“I thought you liked quiet,” you teased, eyes glinting. “Then why do I hear your thoughts screaming from here?”

His jaw tensed, but that muscle in his cheek twitched. You saw it.

“Keep pushing,” he muttered under his breath, low and dark, but not angry.

You smiled.

You were getting to him.

And this game? It had only just begun.

[ltash]

The Unwanted Wife pt-3

SimonGhostRileyxfemalereader

When want becomes obbsession, obbsession turns into madness

The pizza hit just right.

Warm, greasy, and comforting, like a balm over the wreckage of a day that should’ve been the happiest of your life.

You leaned back into the plush couch with a little sigh, fingers still wrapped loosely around the empty plate on your lap. Your head tipped against the velvet armrest, golden waves cascading over your shoulder like silk.

Eyes fluttering.

Breath slowing.

And then

Sleep took you.

No ceremony. No permission. Just exhaustion dragging you under like a tide.

Simon didn’t notice at first.

He was chewing absently, staring blankly at the muted TV screen, still half-pissed, half-numb.

But when he turned to say something, something probably gruff and sarcastic his words caught in his throat.

You were curled up beside him.

Out cold.

Your long lashes cast little shadows on your cheeks, lips slightly parted, soft breaths leaving you like sighs.

The ruined wedding dress still clung to your body, crinkled and torn, but you looked ethereal all the same. A little porcelain angel, delicate, heartbreakingly soft.

He stared.

For a moment.

Maybe longer.

Then with a quiet exhale, he stood up and bent down, so gently, sliding one arm under your knees, the other behind your back.

You didn’t even stir.

Light as a dream.

He lifted you easily, holding you close to his chest, warmth bleeding from your body into his as he walked through the quiet house. His boots thudded softly against the wood as he nudged open the bedroom door with his shoulder.

The room still smelled like bridal perfume and mascara tears.

He laid you down carefully, carefully, like you might shatter if he let go too fast.

Pulled the blankets over you.

Paused.

Then, sighing, he sat beside you, back against the headboard, one boot still on, arms crossed over his chest like a man guarding a vault.

He glanced down at you again.

Still asleep.

Still beautiful.

Still his, whether he liked it or not.

His jaw tensed, but his eyes softened just a fraction. Just enough.

Then, without meaning to, without even realizing it.

He closed his eyes.

And for the first time in what felt like days.

Simon Riley stayed.

Right beside his bride.

You didn’t remember falling asleep.

One minute, you were curled up on the couch with your half-eaten slice of pizza resting on a paper plate, the warmth from the food and the exhaustion from the day settling in your bones. The next, your eyelids were too heavy to fight, and the silence of the room wrapped around you like a blanket.

When you stirred hours later, it wasn’t the sunlight that woke you, it was the cold.

You blinked slowly, disoriented, tucked beneath your comforter. The room was unfamiliar, but the mattress was soft beneath you. You could still smell him faintly on the fabric.

He had carried you here.

But he hadn’t stayed.

Your gaze darted to the other side of the bed, untouched, empty.

Your heart sank.

You slipped out of bed, the soft silk of your bridal dress brushing against your legs as you padded down the hall. One glance into the guest bedroom, and your breath hitched.

The sheets were messy.

He’d slept there.

Not with you.

And now, he was gone.

You looked toward the front door, then to the quiet living room, and finally to the clock on the wall. It was nearly nine. He had left without saying a word. No note. No message. Just a void of silence where his presence should’ve been.

A knock on the doorframe made you turn.

“Ma’am,” the house staff chef greeted gently. “Breakfast is ready. Shall I serve it in the dining room?”

You swallowed the lump in your throat and nodded wordlessly.

Moments later, you sat at the long dining table, alone.

The food was beautifully laid out: fresh eggs, toast, fruit, steaming tea. A perfect spread. But it felt cold without him. Lifeless.

You picked at your plate in silence, the clink of silverware echoing in the stillness.

No husband. No warmth. No wedding bliss.

Just you. And the ghost of him.

And somewhere in your heart, something began to harden, but something else still hoped.

Hoped he’d come home. Hoped he’d look at you like you mattered.

Hoped this wasn’t going to be the rest of your life.

You spent the entire day in silence.

No calls. No texts. Not even a shadow of his presence in the mansion your father bought for the two of you.

You wandered through its empty halls like a ghost, your heels echoing on the polished floors, fingers brushing against the velvet drapes and cold marble counters as if trying to feel something. You dressed up, just a little, did your hair, put on your soft perfume… foolishly hoping.

But he didn’t come.

You sat on the couch for hours. Curled up with a blanket, hugging a cushion to your chest. Eyes glued to the clock.

8:00 p.m.

10:00.

Midnight.

Still nothing.

The staff had all gone to bed. The lights in the house dimmed. Even the air felt still. Your eyelids began to drop against your will as you waited, your head lolling against the arm of the couch. You told yourself you'd stay awake until he came, but exhaustion had other plans.

You didn’t hear the door when it opened at nearly 2 a.m.

Didn’t hear the heavy tread of boots over the hardwood floor.

He stepped inside, quiet as a shadow, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. His tactical gear was still on, vest unstrapped, black shirt damp at the collar. He smelled faintly of gunpowder and sweat, of wind and the cold night.

And there you were.

Asleep on the couch.

Still waiting for him.

Even in your sleep, you looked heartbreakingly delicate. Your hand tucked under your cheek. Your hair fanned out like gold. A frown etched gently between your brows, as if your sadness had followed you into your dreams.

His jaw clenched.

He stood there for a moment, unmoving, unreadable.

Then without a word, he turned, walked down the hallway, and disappeared into the guest bedroom. The door shut behind him with a quiet, final thud.

This was routine now.

You’d wait all day.

He’d return when the moon was high.

You wouldn’t speak.

And each time, it chipped away at the hope you stubbornly clung to.

Days bled into weeks.

Weeks slipped into months.

And still… nothing changed.

You lived in the same house, shared the same last name, but he felt galaxies away. Simon was like a shadow that drifted in and out of your world, never touching it, never acknowledging your presence unless it was necessary.

He never ate with you.

Never spoke unless it was clipped and cold.

Never looked at you the way he did that first night, when he carried you to bed after pizza, when he leaned on the headboard, watching you sleep.

Now he barely looked at you at all.

You woke up alone every day. Went to sleep crying most nights. No one saw the cracked pieces of your heart scattered across the mansion floor, no one except the walls that had grown used to your sobs echoing through the night.

You kept your pain hidden from the world. Even from your father.

Especially from your father.

Because the one thing scarier than living in silence was the thought of your father finding out. The threat that had cornered Simon into marrying you in the first place, it still hung heavy in the air, unspoken, but always there.

You couldn’t risk it.

You couldn’t bear the thought of your father storming into the base again. Or worse, ruining Simon’s life just because you were hurting.

So you stayed quiet.

Played the part.

Smiled politely when your father called to check in. Said he’s just busy with missions, Daddy, like that explained the darkness under your eyes and the hollow ache in your chest.

You bought new clothes. Tried to bake. Read books. Took long walks in the empty garden.

But nothing filled the space where love was supposed to be.

Your life wasn’t a life.

It was a nightmare you couldn’t wake up from.

And worst of all,

You still loved him.

More with each day.

Even when he didn’t look your way.

Even when he never said your name.

You had enough.

Valentine’s Day.

The one day the world turned red and soft and sweet. And yet your world, still gray. Still quiet. Still haunted by the man who never looked your way.

But not today.

Today, you weren’t going to cry in silk sheets or wait by the window for headlights that never came.

You were going to remind him.

Remind him who you were. What he had. And what he was losing with every cold, silent night.

You dressed in silence.

The gown was rich burgundy velvet, sculpted to your figure like it had been made for your body. Off-shoulder, hugging your curves in all the right ways. Your neck shimmered with diamonds. Your ears dripped with it. And your heels, six-inch Louboutins, red as vengeance, clicked like a promise with every step.

Hair cascading in soft waves, eyes done just enough to slay, lips painted the color of heartbreak.

You looked… expensive. Effortless. Untouchable.

You slid behind the wheel of your black G-Wagon and drove.

The SAS base didn’t expect you.

The security checkpoint was stunned into silence the moment your window rolled down. They saluted you hastily, waving you through like royalty.

And when you pulled into the parking lot, every head turned.

Some jaws dropped.

Others whispered.

Is that…?

That’s her.

Ghost’s wife.

The wife he never mentioned. The wife no one had seen.

Until now.

You stepped out like a queen, every movement measured and graceful. Your heels clicked across the gravel, your diamond anklet glittered in the sunlight, and your eyes, those heartbreak eyes, scanned the grounds like you owned it all.

You did own it.

You owned him, too. Whether he liked it or not.

And today, you weren’t leaving until he saw you.

Until he heard you.

Until he remembered who the hell he married.

You walked past the soldiers like they weren’t even there.

Whispers buzzed around you like electricity. Their eyes followed every step you took, stunned silent by the image of you, ghostlike in your beauty, heartbroken but defiant. A living, breathing reminder that Ghost wasn’t as untouchable as they thought. He had a wife. And she was here.

You didn’t stop. Not for them. Not for the stares.

Heels clicking across the halls, you made your way to his office and without hesitation, without knocking, you pushed the door open.

He was standing behind his desk, eyes focused on a stack of classified files, a pen in hand.

And then he looked up.

He froze.

You watched the surprise flicker in his eyes, just for a second, before that cold mask of indifference snapped back into place.

But you saw it.

You saw it.

“Simon,” you said, walking in like you owned the damn room. Your voice was smooth, but your heart thundered in your chest.

He straightened slowly, jaw tightening. “What are you doing here?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Instead, you walked across the room with that quiet, devastating grace you wore like perfume. You took the seat across from him, legs elegantly crossed, bag tossed onto the desk like you had every right.

You picked up the intercom receiver on his desk and calmly pressed the button.

“Two coffees. Hot. Now.”

You set it down.

Then looked at him.

“Surprised to see me, babe?” you asked, tilting your head with a soft smirk that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

He said nothing, eyes scanning you. Taking in every inch of your figure in that gown. The shine in your hair. The way your wrist rested gently on your lap like you weren’t trembling on the inside.

You leaned forward slightly.

“I was tired of waiting at home. Thought maybe you'd appreciate the company on Valentine’s Day.”

Still, he said nothing.

But his eyes…

They were burning.

You reached into your purse, Hermès, naturally, and pulled out two sleek, glossy envelopes.

You placed them on his desk like a winning hand in poker.

Simon’s eyes flicked down.

“What is this?” he asked, voice low, guarded.

You didn’t blink. “Our honeymoon tickets. First class. Turks and Caicos.”

His brows tightened. “Honeymoon?”

You tilted your head again, that soft smile playing on your lips. “Arranged by Daddy. He thought we deserved some time together now that you're back from your mission.”

Simon stared at the tickets, unreadable.

“I’m not the honeymoon type,” he said flatly, arms folding across his chest, voice dry as gunpowder.

Your eyes sparkled.

“I don’t care.” You leaned forward, lips parting ever so slightly. “You’re coming with me.”

A beat of silence stretched between you.

He knew he couldn’t say no. Not to you. Not with your father’s shadow looming over everything.

His jaw ticked, but he didn’t speak.

Just then, the knock came, sharp, and almost afraid.

The door cracked open and a young soldier stepped in with a tray of two steaming cups of coffee. He set it down with shaking hands, glanced at Ghost like he wanted to disappear, and left the room in a hurry.

You lifted your cup with grace.

Took a slow sip.

And when you looked over the rim of the porcelain mug… that smirk danced across your lips.

“Pack light,” you said smoothly. “We’re wheels up in the morning.”

He didn’t respond.

But his silence wasn’t rejection this time.

It was surrender.

And you knew it.

[ltash]

"The Unwanted Wife" pt-2

SimonGhostRileyxfemalereader

When want becomes obbsession, obssession turns into madness

The minute you got back home, everything changed.

The shine in your eyes dulled.

The diamonds didn’t matter.

The endless luxury, the appointments, the invitations, none of it touched you.

You stayed in your room, the same four walls that once glittered with your laughter now thick with silence.

Days passed.

Then weeks.

And still, nothing.

Your maids whispered behind closed doors. The chef begged you to eat. Your father watched from a distance, confusion turning to concern, concern turning to fury.

One evening, he entered your room without knocking.

You didn’t even flinch.

He stood there, hands on his hips, a man who’d negotiated peace deals and led entire war zones, now facing the most dangerous force of all: his daughter’s heartbreak.

“What’s going on with you?” he asked gruffly. “You haven’t left this room in weeks.”

You didn’t look at him. Just stared out the window, voice cold and certain:

“I want to marry Ghost.”

Silence.

Then a slow, disbelieving scoff. “Simon Riley? The SAS lieutenant?”

You turned then, eyes locked, voice sharper now. “Yes. I love him. I’m going to marry him.”

He barked a humorless laugh. “You think love works like that? You don’t get to buy a soldier.”

“I’m not buying him,” you snapped. “I’m choosing him. For the first time in my life, I want something real. And I won’t eat. I won’t sleep. I won’t live, unless I have him.”

And you meant it.

So the hunger strike began.

Day one: silence.

Day two: dizziness.

Day three: your father’s patience finally cracked.

The next thing you knew, his convoy was rumbling back into that familiar base, the SAS guards snapping to attention as the Field Marshal himself stormed in like a war was about to start.

And Ghost?

Ghost was pulled from training and summoned to the commander’s office.

He arrived still in gear, dirt smeared down one arm, mask in place, confusion in his spine as he stood before the most powerful man in the U.S. Army.

“I’m not going to make this a game,” your father said coolly. “My daughter hasn’t eaten in five days. You broke her.”

Ghost said nothing, jaw ticking.

“So here’s the deal,” your father continued. “She wants to marry you. You already said no. I’m giving you a chance to say yes.”

Ghost crossed his arms. “With respect, sir, no.”

The Field Marshal leaned forward, tone turning glacial. “Then I’ll have your clearance revoked. Every op? Cancelled. You’ll be doing admin work until you’re 45. I’ll bury you so deep in protocol, you won’t see sunlight.”

Silence fell like a hammer.

Ghost didn’t flinch.

But something shifted.

Because he knew it wasn’t an empty threat.

And more than that, he knew the girl behind this madness wasn’t going to stop.

She never stopped.

“…Fine,” he muttered.

“What was that?”

Ghost stared through the glass, voice tight and quiet.

“I said fine. I’ll marry her.”

The wedding was nothing short of royal.

A private military chapel cleared and decorated by your father’s finest. White orchids. Soft gold lighting. Discreet security. Press blacklisted. Every thread of the event woven in silence and power.

And you,

You looked like something divine.

A vision.

Your gown shimmered like starlight, delicate lace kissed with crystal, cinched at your tiny waist, flowing down like it was poured from heaven. A veil so long it needed its own convoy. Diamond-encrusted Louboutins on your feet. Your favorite Hermès bag clutched delicately beneath your bouquet, like a signature only you could get away with.

You smiled so wide it hurt.

Your father, solemn and stern in full dress uniform, walked you down the aisle with pride burning behind his eyes. As if delivering a queen to her throne.

And at the altar,

Ghost.

No tuxedo. No formal uniform. Not even a pressed shirt.

Black SAS tactical gear. Combat boots. Arms folded. Jaw tight.

But no mask today.

No balaclava.

Just his face.

Harsh lines. Cold eyes. Stubble across his jaw.

And lips sealed in complete detachment.

He looked like a man sent to execution.

But to you? He looked perfect.

You walked down the aisle like it was a catwalk made of dreams. Smiling so brightly you practically glowed.

He didn’t meet your eyes.

Didn’t say a word until the priest forced him to.

Vows were spoken, yours radiant and breathless, his flat and short.

Rings exchanged, your fingers trembling with excitement, his movements precise and robotic.

And then,

"You may kiss the bride."

For a breathless second, you thought he might refuse.

But he leaned in.

Gently.

Softly.

And pressed a single, cold kiss to your lips.

It lasted only a second, but it was everything.

He drove you in silence.

You sat beside him in the passenger seat of the matte black SUV, veil tossed back, smile still lingering, fingers tracing your new ring.

“This house is massive, right? Daddy said it used to belong to a diplomat. It has a heated pool. And a sauna. And a terrace with a view of the airstrip. I’ll be able to watch you leave for missions like a war wife in a romance movie.”

Ghost’s jaw clenched.

You glanced at him, the softest smirk curling your lips.

“You’re really not going to say anything? Not even on your wedding day?”

His eyes stayed forward. Hands on the wheel. Tension in every knuckle.

And still, you talked.

Because silence never scared you.

You could talk forever if that’s what it took.

Because you were Mrs. Simon Riley now.

And you always got what you wanted.

The black SUV rumbled into the driveway, tires crunching the white gravel outside the mansion like the final notes of a funeral march.

He didn’t say a word.

Didn’t even glance your way.

The engine cut.

He stepped out, slammed the door shut behind him, and marched straight for the massive oakwood entrance like a soldier clearing a room, precise, cold, mechanical.

You sat there stunned, fingers tightening around your bouquet, the air punched from your lungs.

He didn’t even open the door for you.

Not on your wedding day.

Not as your husband.

You opened it yourself, lifting your shimmering gown delicately with both hands, your diamond bracelets catching the porch lights as you hurried behind him.

The foyer was cathedral-like, echoing with wealth and emptiness. High ceilings. Marble floors. Chandeliers.

He stood in the center of it all.

Back to you.

Broad shoulders tense beneath that black gear.

Hands fisted at his sides.

Like he was holding himself back from something.

“Simon…!” you called gently, your voice soft, airy, so painfully you.

He didn’t turn.

You took a few careful steps toward him, heels clicking against polished stone.

“Aren’t you happy, babe?” you asked, the word laced with syrup and hope.

That was the moment he snapped.

He turned, jaw clenched, eyes sharp and burning.

“Don’t you call me that.”

The words hit like a slap.

You blinked, lips parting. “I’m your wife now, Simon. Why are you acting like this?”

“You think a wedding changes what this is?” he growled. “You think throwing your father’s weight around and starving yourself into some pity party earns you a marriage?”

“I love you,” you said, voice trembling.

“You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough,” you whispered, stepping closer. “I know you saved me once. I know you’d die for people without hesitation. I know that underneath all that armor, there’s a man who feels.”

His eyes narrowed.

“You don’t want me,” he said, coldly. “You want the idea of me. The fantasy. And I’m not here to play dress-up for a spoiled little girl with daddy issues.”

Your breath hitched.

“I’m not a child,” you whispered.

“No?” He gave a humorless chuckle. “Then stop acting like one. This mansion, this marriage, none of it’s real. You got what you wanted. You won. Now go live in your palace and leave me the hell alone.”

He turned again, heading toward the stairs.

You stood frozen, gown trailing behind you, bouquet slipping from your hands.

But your voice still carried, soft but steel-edged:

“Even if you hate me now… one day, Simon Riley, you’re going to beg to kiss the ground I walk on.”

He paused at the top of the stairs.

Didn’t turn.

Didn’t speak.

Just vanished down the hallway, leaving you in silence.

But that was fine.

Because you weren’t done.

Not even close.

The bouquet hit the marble floor with a dull thud, petals scattering like a ruined promise.

You stood there, chest rising and falling, eyes wide with disbelief as he turned away again, leaving nothing but his back and those damned clenched fists.

"Simon..." you whispered, barely audible now.

His shoulders rose.

Paused.

And then, he turned.

His face was unreadable. Not cold. Not cruel.

Just done.

But his words? His words cut like a blade.

"Oh, so you're gonna cry now?" he said flatly, taking a slow step closer.

Your breath caught. Your lashes fluttered, the first tear already forming.

“Go ahead,” he continued, voice low, sharp, like venom dipped in steel. “Cry harder.”

Your lips parted.

Quivered.

And just like that,

It cracked.

You cracked.

The sob broke out before you could swallow it, hand flying to your mouth as tears started to fall, fast and hot, dragging your mascara down with them. You shook your head once, weakly, like maybe you could deny it, deny him, deny this entire nightmare.

But the pain…

It came in waves.

You turned and ran.

Ran up the stairs, heels clacking against wood, gown in fists, lungs burning.

You burst into the bedroom, your bedroom, palatial and sterile, untouched and unloved.

You collapsed onto the bed, veil ripping beneath your weight as your sobs tore through the silence.

You cried like the girl who never heard "no."

Like a bride with no groom.

Like a heart cracking in real time.

Downstairs, the mansion stood quiet.

No footsteps.

No apology.

Just the echo of your broken cries against a house too big, too cold, and a husband who never wanted you.

The room was cold.

Too quiet.

Too dark.

Your sobs had faded into exhausted sniffles by midnight, your silk pillow soaked, your perfectly done bridal hair now a mess of golden waves tangled with tears.

But it wasn’t the heartbreak that forced you up.

It was the hunger.

Sharp. Deep. Almost cruel.

You hadn’t eaten all day. Not during the ceremony. Not at the reception that never happened.

Not during the long, silent car ride home.

Your stomach twisted as you wiped your face with the back of your hand and slipped quietly from the room, your bare feet soft against the marble stairs.

The mansion was dim, lit only by the soft golden glow of the lounge.

And that’s where you saw him.

Simon.

Sitting alone on the velvet armchair like a statue carved from midnight.

Still in his tactical gear, boots kicked out, one hand resting on his knee while the other clutched a crystal glass of whiskey. The bottle beside him, half-empty now.

He didn’t look at you.

Or maybe he did, just not enough for you to notice through the haze of your own sadness.

You padded past him, small and quiet, still in your torn wedding dress, mascara streaked like warpaint on porcelain skin.

Straight to the kitchen.

The fridge light buzzed softly when you opened it, casting a faint glow over your tear-streaked cheeks. Your eyes landed on the tub of pistachio ice cream, your favorite. You grabbed it with trembling hands, pulled a spoon from the drawer, and sat on the cold marble island.

You were still softly sniffling, tears silently dripping as you scooped a mouthful into your mouth.

And another.

And another.

The cold soothed the burn in your throat, but nothing could fix the crack in your chest.

You looked like something out of a heartbreak film, so tiny, so delicate, curled up on a kitchen counter in a wedding gown, crying into a tub of ice cream at 12:37 a.m.

And he was watching you.

His glass hovered halfway to his mouth, eyes locked on you from across the room. Something in his gaze unreadable. Not pity. Not guilt.

Just… stillness.

Like maybe, maybe, he wasn’t as made of stone as he pretended to be.

Your voice broke the silence, small and wobbly.

“…I didn’t even get a piece of cake.”

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t blink.

But the way his jaw clenched again, so tightly, it meant something.

Maybe not everything.

But something.

You sniffled again, tossing the spoon into the sink with a little clang as you slid off the kitchen counter, still barefoot, still in your torn gown, like a porcelain doll someone forgot to take care of.

Your eyes, glassy and wide, found him across the dim room.

He was still in that chair, that damn drink in his hand like it was the only thing holding him together.

You padded over and stood in front of him, arms limp at your sides, your cheeks flushed from crying, your lashes heavy with dried mascara.

He looked up slowly.

“What?” he muttered flatly.

You clenched your little fists and whined, voice breaking,

“I’m hungry!!”

He stared.

And then, dramatically, like it physically pained him to hear you again, he dragged a hand over his face.

“Here we go again,” he grumbled, tossing the rest of the whiskey back like a shot. “Jesus.”

You blinked rapidly, bottom lip trembling, eyes swimming again.

“I didn’t eat all day,” you said in a whisper. “I thought we’d have a wedding dinner together. I thought…” you trailed off, voice fading like the rest of your hope.

He stood up.

Quick.

Boots hitting the floor with a thud.

You flinched, but not because you were scared. Just surprised.

He didn’t say a word.

Just stormed past you, jaw tight, hand gripping his keys off the table with a little clink.

You watched him walk out the front door, oakwood slamming shut behind him.

You sank onto the couch.

Of course he left.

Of course.

To a bar, probably. Maybe a pub. Maybe some dirty nightclub where he could forget the rich girl he’d been forced to marry.

You curled into yourself on the couch, hugging a throw pillow to your chest like it was your last defense.

But,

Twenty-three minutes later…

The door creaked open again.

You didn’t move at first.

Didn’t look.

Until you heard the unmistakable sound of a pizza box being opened.

Your head jerked up, heart stuttering.

Simon Riley walked into the room, still in his gear, snowflakes dusting his shoulders.

His face unreadable. But his hands? Full.

One large pizza box.

Two paper plates.

Two plastic forks.

Your mouth parted slightly as he dropped everything onto the coffee table and grabbed one of the plates.

Without a word, he slid two slices onto it.

Then held it out to you.

His eyes, dark, brooding, tired, met yours with just a trace of something else beneath them.

Not softness.

Not kindness.

But maybe something like… not hate.

“Eat,” he ordered.

Your fingers hesitated, then reached for the plate, brushing against his.

Your voice was small again. “…You brought pizza?”

“No. It teleported here.”

You blinked, then snorted, actually snorted, and bit your lip, trying not to smile.

He sat beside you, tossing a slice onto his own plate, eyes on the television that wasn’t even on.

You took a bite. Closed your eyes.

It was warm. Cheesy. Comforting.

The silence stretched between you, heavy but not unbearable.

“Thank you,” you whispered, not looking at him.

He didn’t reply.

But he didn’t get up and leave either.

And for now… that was enough.