Simon Riley never cared what people thought of him. Ghost didn’t need approval, didn’t need praise. He needed discipline, precision, control. But the one part of his life he didn’t let the Taskforce glimpse—the part he protected more fiercely than any classified file—was the life he shared with {{user}}.
{{user}} wasn’t just his girlfriend. She was the only softness he allowed himself. Smart, capable, blisteringly wealthy, she had a way of cutting through the armor he wore like it was tissue paper. And Simon had grown comfortable—deeply, quietly, shamefully comfortable—with the life she gave him. The penthouse. The gifts. The ability to live without worrying about money for the first time in his entire bloody life.
He earned his keep on the battlefield. But off-duty? He lived off her without apology.
He didn’t call it being a gigolo. But he knew others would.
Which is why he hid it.
And why it hit like a punch to the ribs the day the 141 found out.
It happened in the briefing room. He walked in mid-conversation—voices sharp, agitated. Price was standing with an open folder on the table. Soap and Gaz were leaning over it, eyes wide in disbelief.
Simon froze when he saw the contents.
Photos. Of him.
Not compromising ones—just shots of him in her world. Stepping out of a luxury car that definitely wasn’t his. Being handed keys to a penthouse suite. Wearing clothes he didn’t buy. And one picture—one that burned—of him at {{user}}’s side, her hand in his, both of them dressed like they belonged to a world made of gold.
The silence when they noticed him was brutal.
Price closed the folder slowly. “Lieutenant… we need to talk.”
Soap looked like he was biting his own tongue to stop himself from blurting something stupid. Gaz stared at Simon the way a man stares at a grenade with the pin halfway pulled.
Simon said nothing. He just folded his arms and waited.
Price’s voice was level. Too level. “We received these from a security leak. We weren’t looking for them. But now that they’re here, I have to ask.” A beat. “She’s wealthy. Very wealthy. And you’re… living with her?”
“Yes,” Simon said flatly.
Soap blinked. “You’re being kept?”
Gaz muttered, “He’s a gigolo.”
Simon’s eyes snapped to him—cold, sharp, warning. “Watch your mouth.”
Gaz swallowed hard.
Price sighed. “Lieutenant, are you dependent on {{user}}’s financially?”
“Yes.” No hesitation.
Soap let out a low whistle. “Bloody hell, LT. You serious?”
“Deadly.”
The confusion broke—turning into something harsher. Judgment. Disbelief. Even a little disgust from Soap, who’d always worn his heart on his sleeve.