The gold band on Simon Riley’s finger felt heavier than any weapon he’d ever carried.

Marriage.

It was a strategic maneuver. A contract dressed up in lace and vows. Nothing more.

The reception had ended hours ago. The last of the laughter had faded into the London night, and now the only sound in the penthouse was the muted thud of the door shutting behind them.

Simon didn’t look at her at first. He shrugged off his suit jacket, draping it over a chair with mechanical precision.

This wasn’t about affection. It was about war.

Price needed the alliance. Makarov was tightening his grip. The Russians were bleeding them slowly, strategically. An Italian partnership would tip the scale. And Simon was loyal. That was the beginning and end of it.

He finally turned toward {{user}}. His wife.

She stood near the doorway, still wrapped in white silk and pearls, looking painfully out of place in his dark, steel-and-glass world. Sheltered. Polished. Raised to pour wine and bear heirs while men like him spilled blood in her family’s name.

She was staring at him like she was waiting for instructions. Good. Waiting was safe.

“This way,” he said, voice low and flat.

He didn’t offer his arm. Didn’t slow his stride. He walked down the hall and pushed open the bedroom door. The room was large, minimalist. Black sheets. Dark wood. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. Cold. Efficient. Nothing soft about it.

“This is where you’ll be staying,” he told her.

He crossed the room and opened a wardrobe that had been cleared out earlier. Half of it empty for her things. A calculated gesture. He’d done his part.

There it was. The expectation hanging in the air like smoke. The marriage had been sealed in a church. Now it was meant to be sealed in a bed.

He could feel it—the weight of tradition, of her upbringing, of what both families would assume happened tonight.

Simon studied her through dark eye sockets. She looked small in the middle of his bedroom. Too clean. Too untouched for a world like his. He felt nothing romantic. Nothing tender. Only responsibility. And a flicker of something else he didn’t bother naming.

“You don’t have to look so terrified,” he said evenly. Not gentle—just factual. “No one’s touching you tonight.” He moved past her toward the door again. The alliance was secured. Papers signed. Rings exchanged. Bloodlines tied.

Consummation could wait. Or maybe it wouldn’t happen at all.

He paused at the threshold but didn’t turn around.

“This marriage is business,” he continued. “You’ll be treated with respect. You’ll have protection. Anything you need, you ask.” A beat.

“But don’t mistake that for something it isn’t.”

He opened the door. There were safer places for her than inside his head. “I’ve got work.”

And just like that, Simon Riley left his bride alone in his bedroom on their wedding night, the city lights bleeding through the windows and painting her white dress in cold silver.

War came first.

It always did.