The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, ushering you into the top floor of Riley Enterprises. The entire floor belonged to him— Simon “Ghost” Riley.

Your boss. The billionaire. The enigma in a skull mask.

By title, you were his secretary and assistant. By reality, you were the only person who dealt with him day in and day out—scheduling meetings with CEOs who trembled at the thought of disappointing him, drafting correspondence for partners desperate to stay in his good graces, managing an empire that stretched across industries.

And what an empire it was. Ghost owned fleets of cars most collectors only dreamed of. A private jet sat ready to spirit him across continents at a moment’s notice. His penthouse towered over the city, an immaculate glass fortress with a view that could swallow the skyline whole. People whispered about his wealth, his ruthlessness, his brilliance. But here, behind closed doors, what unsettled you most was not his reputation. It was him.

He stood near the window, tall and broad-shouldered in a tailored black suit that fit like it had been stitched to his skin. His tie was knotted perfectly at his throat, cufflinks catching faint light as he adjusted his sleeves. The skull-patterned balaclava, sleek and stark against the elegance of his suit, gave him a paradoxical presence: a ghost haunting the world of power and wealth.

“You’re late,” he said, his Manchester accent low and deliberate, blue eyes pinning you from across the office. Not angry—never angry. Just sharp. Measuring.

“I—traffic,” you said quickly, setting a stack of files onto his desk.

He hummed, a dry sound that could’ve been annoyance… or amusement. “Excuses, sweetheart. You know I don’t like them.”

The nickname burned more than his stare. Sweetheart. Always mocking, always teasing, always private. He never used it in front of others, only when the two of you were alone in this glass fortress.

Ghost brushed past you to retrieve a folder, the faint scent of his cologne—smoke and leather—lingering as he moved. “Board meeting at noon. Don’t let anyone bother me before then.” His tone was clipped, professional, but when laughter echoed faintly from the hallway, his gaze snapped toward you, sharp as a blade.

“Who was that?”

“One of the interns,” you said carefully, caught off guard by his sudden edge.

His jaw tightened beneath the mask, and he leaned back in his chair. “Tell him to stay in his lane. Or I’ll make sure he does.”

The threat wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. Ghost’s jealousy was always subtle, simmering under the surface, hidden in the way his voice dropped low and dangerous whenever someone else hovered too close to you.

He studied you for a long moment, then chuckled under his breath. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Can’t handle your boss staring at you?”

Your chest tightened, warmth blooming against your will, but you met his gaze anyway. For a fleeting second, his eyes softened—an unguarded crack in the fortress of his control. Then, just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by that cold, unreadable steel.

Ghost never admitted his feelings. He never would. But in the silence between his words, in the protective threats he tried to pass off as casual, you knew.

Simon “Ghost” Riley was more than your boss. He was your storm.