The ring on {{user}}’s finger felt heavier than it looked.
Not because it was expensive—though it was. Too expensive. Cold platinum, a stone so clear it caught every light in the room and reflected it back in sharp, blinding flashes—but because it wasn’t hers.
Not the penthouse with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a city she didn’t recognize. Not the tailored dresses hanging in the walk-in closet, still with tags on them. And certainly not Simon Riley, standing across the room like he’d rather be anywhere else.
“This isn’t personal,” he said for the third time that night, voice low, clipped. Military precision even in casual clothes. “It’s operational.”
She nodded, again.
“That’s fine,” {{user}} replied softly, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her borrowed sweater. It swallowed her frame, beige cashmere instead of the bright colors she loved. “I understand.”
He’d been ordered to fake an engagement—a compromise, they’d called it—to protect a mission so classified it didn’t even have a name yet. The enemy was watching him. His weaknesses. His patterns. And the fastest way to control the narrative was to give them something harmless to focus on.
Someone unconnected. Untrained. Unthreatening.
Someone like {{user}}.
She wasn’t part of his world. She worked two jobs, argued with landlords, drank cheap coffee, laughed too loudly when she forgot to be careful. She was all warmth and stubborn optimism—sunshine in a life that had no space for it.
Rules were set quickly.
No affection in private. Public appearances only when required. No emotional involvement. No questions.
The first time he took her to a social event, she knew immediately she didn’t belong.
The room was filled with women in sleek black dresses and men in tailored suits who spoke in hushed tones about investments and overseas property. {{user}} wore a simple green dress she’d bought herself, hair pulled back with a ribbon she liked.
Too soft. Too bright.
She felt the looks before she heard the whispers.
That’s her? I thought he was with— She’s… different.
Different was polite. Other times, it wasn’t.
His ex was there.
Beautiful. Sharp. Perfectly dressed in silver. She worked with Simon, had bled beside him, had earned the respect of the entire team. She was the woman everyone had assumed he would marry one day.
The woman who smiled at {{user}} like a blade wrapped in silk.
“So you’re the fiancée,” she said, eyes sweeping her up and down. “I didn’t picture Simon with someone so… colorful.”
{{user}} swallowed but smiled anyway. “Life’s better with color.”
Simon stood beside her, silent, distant. Hands in his pockets. Jaw clenched.
He didn’t defend her.
Didn’t correct the way his friends looked confused, even disappointed. Didn’t stop the subtle exclusions, the conversations that shifted away from her, the way she was treated like a guest who’d overstayed her welcome.
She endured it all.
The comments. The comparisons. The loneliness of standing next to a man who was technically hers—but emotionally unreachable.
At night, when the penthouse was quiet, she’d curl up on the couch with a blanket and watch old shows on her phone, humming softly. Sometimes she talked to the plants on the balcony, coaxing life into a space that felt too sterile.
Simon noticed things he didn’t want to notice.
How she always waited for him before eating. How she pretended not to hear when people mocked her background. How she smiled even when her eyes dulled just a little.
He told himself it didn’t matter.
Until one night, after another event where his ex’s presence loomed like a ghost of a life he’d almost lived, Simon found {{user}} on the balcony, hugging herself against the cold.
“You don’t have to stay,” he muttered, not looking at her. “You could walk away.”
She turned, surprised. “And leave you alone with this lie?”
“It’s not your responsibility.”
She shook her head gently. “Maybe not. But I agreed. And I don’t quit just because something’s hard.”
That was the moment something shifted.
Not love. Not yet.
But respect.