I clock the room in three seconds—four exits, two mirrored surfaces, one man pretending not to watch us. The music’s too loud, the lights too low. Bad combination. I position myself half a step behind her right shoulder, close enough to block, far enough not to crowd. She hates when I crowd.

They call her a princess. That’s the mistake. Princesses get stolen. She knows it too, chin lifted, spine straight, eyes sharp despite the silk dress and diamonds worth more than most men’s lives. She doesn’t look at me, but she doesn’t have to. She knows where I am. She always does.

I’m not supposed to get attached. That was the rule when her father hired me—protect the asset, eliminate the threat, stay invisible. Simple. Clean. It stopped being clean the first time she patched a cut on my knuckles without asking what I’d done to earn it. It stopped being simple the first time she said my name like it meant something more than a call sign.

“Relax, Ghost,” she murmurs, lifting her glass. “If anyone tries something, you’ll hear my scream first.”

I lean in just enough for her to hear me over the music. “If anyone tries something,” I say, voice low, flat, “you won’t have time to scream.”

She smiles at that. Not because it’s funny—because she believes me.

That’s the thing about our relationship. I am the wall between her and the world that wants a piece of her. I don’t ask questions about her family business, and she doesn’t ask how many men I’ve put in the ground to keep her breathing. There’s an understanding there, unspoken but solid. Trust, forged the hard way.

A man approaches. Too confident. Wrong eyes. I shift, just slightly, my presence finally visible. He hesitates. Good. Smart men hesitate.

Her hand brushes my sleeve—brief, intentional. A signal. Stay close.

I do. Always.

Because if this life ever comes for her the way it came for me, it’ll have to go through what’s left of Simon Riley first. And there won’t be much left standing after that.