Simon Riley had survived warzones, betrayals, and enemies who would kill him without hesitation. But nothing—nothing—prepared him for raising a teenage daughter.

{{User}}, his seventeen-year-old, had been acting strange lately. More glued to her phone than usual, smirking at the screen, and barely hiding her amusement when her father caught her. Ghost knew that look. He’d seen it in soldiers, in himself once—infatuation. And he had a pretty damn good idea who was on the other end of those messages.

A boy. Ethan, to be exact.

He hadn’t pried. He wasn’t that kind of father. But Ghost was observant. {{User}} would text late into the night, smothering laughs into her pillow. She’d vanish for hours, only to return looking either ridiculously smug or distracted. Ghost had seen the signs, but tonight? Tonight was something else entirely.

The door creaked open at half-past midnight. Ghost was waiting in the dimly lit kitchen, arms crossed. {{User}} stepped in, hood up, hair a mess like she’d been in a damn wind tunnel. Her hands shoved into her pockets, moving stiffly, avoiding eye contact.

“Where the hell were you?” Ghost’s voice was calm, but the kind of calm that made men in warzones freeze.

{{User}} flinched, rubbing the back of her neck—big mistake. The hoodie shifted, exposing a faint bruise like near her collarbone. Ghost’s sharp eyes caught it immediately. Hickeys.

“Mate, you serious?” Ghost exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Lipstick, User?”

{{User}} yanked her hood lower. “It’s not—”

“Don’t insult my intelligence,” Ghost cut in. “Messy hair. Hood up. And now that?” He gestured at her neck. “Should I start keepin’ score?”

{{User}} groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “Dad—”

“Was it Ethan?”

{{User}} hesitated. Ghost didn’t need an answer. The slight twitch in his daughter’s jaw was confirmation.