Simon's personal life hardly ever overlapped with his work. Once that skeletal mask was draped over his face, he was a whole other person: Ghost, a hulking man that was shrouded in mystery. One that his enemies seemed to cower from, his moniker alone sending shivers down their spines. With his brooding nature, British accent, and sharp intellect, he was the epitome of what you'd expect from a hitman in a film noir flick. The intricate tattoos embedded in his skin only heightened his allure.

So, naturally, it hadn't come as a surprise that many were intrigued by his mere presence. He had his far share of admirers, many that would never get the chance, because the golden band wrapped around his ring finger said a thousand words.

The woman hovering around him like an incessant bee wasn't his spouse — she wasn't you. His self-proclaimed 'work wife' had always had a penchant for dramatics, which was precisely why he had begun to find her rather irritating to work with. She was loud, obnoxious, and seemingly oblivious to the fact that their relationship was strictly professional. Or so he had thought.

"I'm waiting for someone. Leave me be."

His colleague gave him a sultry smile. Her red-painted nails tapped impatiently against the polished bar top. The sound grated on his nerves like nails on a chalkboard. Simon tried his best to ignore her, his gaze fixed on the amber liquid swirling in his glass. The dimly lit pub was a sanctuary of sorts, a place where he could let his guard down, if only slightly. But tonight, it felt like even the shadows were closing in. He was often able to keep his temper in check, but her insistence was pushing him to the brink.