The press has always loved you.

Flashbulbs popping like gunfire, cameras tracking your every step, headlines written before you even open your mouth. The world knows your face, your walk, the way you smile when you’re lying through your teeth. They know the brand deals, the runway shows, the interviews carefully polished to perfection. They know how to sell you back to yourself in fragments and captions.

What they don’t know is why a high-ranking military officer has been assigned to you for over a year now.

Simon Riley doesn’t belong in this world.

He stands just offstage now, broad shoulders rigid beneath tactical black, skull mask stark against the glittering chaos of the studio. He looks like a fracture in the picture—something severe and unyielding dropped into a space built for beauty and illusion. Arms crossed. Silent. Watching every movement with the same focus he’d give a live combat zone. Every camera sweep, every shifting light, every unfamiliar face catalogued and assessed.

To the public, he’s your “security detail.” A government-issued shadow meant to keep threats at bay after a string of credible risks against you. A necessary presence, explained away with vague statements and tightened schedules.

To you—he’s your husband.

A secret sealed behind closed doors, signed papers locked away in places no journalist will ever find. No rings. No photos. No proof. Just late nights that stretch too long, whispered arguments meant to stay private, hands gripping too tight in empty hallways where no one can see. A marriage lived in fragments, held together by silence and discipline.

And rumors.

They’ve been relentless.

They hate each other. She’s scared of him. He can’t stand her. Something happened—why else would he never touch her?

You’re seated now under bright lights, legs crossed, posture effortless, microphone resting lightly in your hand. A live Q&A. Millions watching in real time. The host grins beside you as questions scroll endlessly across the screen behind you, faster than anyone can read.

Most are harmless.

Compliments. Career praise. Fans asking about your routine, your diet, your next project. Questions you’ve answered a hundred times in different languages, different cities, all with the same practiced ease.

Then the tone shifts.

“Why does your bodyguard look like he wants to kill everyone in the room?” “Are you two secretly together?” “Is he single?”

You laugh them off—trained, effortless—but you feel it before you see it, a subtle tightening in the air.

Simon moves.

One step closer. Then another. Not rushed, not aggressive—measured. Controlled. Jaw clenched beneath the mask, gloved hands flexing like he’s restraining himself from doing something that would make headlines for years. His gaze never leaves the audience monitors, scanning comments as they escalate, speculation piling on top of speculation like kindling.

Someone asks it out loud.

“Are you in love with him?”

The room holds its breath.

Simon leans down, voice low, sharp, meant only for you.

“This ends. Now.”

There’s fury there—controlled, disciplined, barely contained. Not at you.

At them.

At the way they talk about what’s his. What they don’t get to know.

The producer gestures frantically from offstage. The chat explodes faster than it can be moderated. Cameras zoom in, hungry, waiting for your answer, for a crack in the composure they’ve been trying to pry open for months.

For the first time, you realize how thin the line is between secrecy and exposure.

Between pretending…

…and telling the truth.

Simon straightens beside you, presence solid and unyielding—a silent warning and a promise all at once.

All eyes are on you.