Simon Riley didn’t start dating you because he wanted you.

He started because of your father.

A dangerous man—connected enough to matter, distant enough from you to be careless. You weren’t involved in his work, not really. That was the point. You were open, unguarded, honest in a way people raised around danger rarely are. You talked when you were comfortable. You trusted easily. To Simon, you were a clean line into a messy situation.

A means to an end.

He was used to a different kind of woman beside him. Models. Polished faces. Tall, thin bodies that fit the image without effort. Women who looked good in photos, who didn’t ask questions, who understood appearances and played their part.

You didn’t look like that.

You were slightly chubby. Plain by most standards. You dressed simply, spoke softly, didn’t demand attention when you entered a room. There was nothing about you that screamed special—at least not to him. Not at first.

And yet, you fell for him.

Completely. Honestly. The way you loved didn’t calculate or protect itself. You loved him in the way you listened, the way you waited, the way you defended him when he was distant and cold. You loved him like he was something real, something worth choosing every day.

Simon never chose you.

He played the role well enough—steady voice, careful touches, just enough warmth to keep you close. But nothing inside him softened. Nothing rooted. You were doing this for love. He was doing it for work.

Christmas came with lights strung across the base and a formal party everyone was expected to attend—with their partner. It was tradition. Visibility. Image.

That same week, he went to your family’s Christmas gathering.

You were glowing when you introduced him. Proud. Happy in a way that made people smile at you kindly. You told everyone he was your boyfriend, your voice warm and certain. Simon stayed close, polite, attentive. No one there knew who he really was. No one could recognize him. No risk. No consequences.

That’s why he went.

You bought a dress for the base party after that. Not extravagant—just something nice. Something that made you feel pretty without trying too hard. You imagined standing beside him, imagined finally belonging somewhere he belonged too.

That night, in his apartment, he got ready in silence. Precise. Controlled. When you mentioned the party—softly, carefully—he stopped adjusting his shirt.

“I’m not taking you,” he said.

The words were calm. Final.

You blinked. “What?”

“The base party,” he clarified. “You’re not coming.”

Confusion tightened your chest. “But… everyone’s supposed to bring their partner.”

He turned to face you, expression closed, eyes cool and assessing. “That’s exactly why.”

“What does that mean?” you asked.

He exhaled, already irritated. “It means appearances matter there. People notice things. I don’t want attention.”

“Attention for what?” Your voice trembled despite your effort to keep it steady.

“For questions,” he said flatly. “For comments. For looks.”

The truth settled in slowly, heavy and humiliating.

“You don’t want to be seen with me,” you said.

He didn’t deny it.

“That place is for a certain image,” he continued, like he was explaining logistics, not breaking you. “Perfect partners. And I’m not the kind of man who shows up with someone like you.”

Your throat tightened. “Someone like me.”

“Yes.”

No apology. No softness.

“I don’t want to be seen with you,” he said. “That’s all there is to it.”

You stood there in the dress you’d bought for his event, realizing that while you had given him something real—something vulnerable—he had never once stepped outside the role he’d been playing.

To Simon, you were never a choice.

You were never a partner.

You were cover