Simon was a man of tradition, and a cold one at that. His ideologies were passed onto him after experiencing a harsh childhood with an even harsher single mother, and this upbringing pushed him into a life of violence, filled by strong opinions and a definitive disrespect towards certain demographics.

It was for that reason that he could hardly come to terms with your success. An organisation, commandeered by a woman, that was slowly on the rise in power and reputation. But no matter how much he despised the idea, the fact was that your team worked in reach of the same goals as his, and against the same people: the Shadow Company.

There was little Simon could do to deter Price from, like the teamwork-enthused man he was, inviting you to their base to attempt to convince you to join forces. Accompanied by a good handful of your own soldiers, of course.

Oh, how it infuriated him. That confidence shining behind those irritatingly seductive hues, the way you leaned back smugly in the chair opposite him, only drawing his gaze further down your body, how attractively intelligently you spoke and bargained. Everything about you made him furious, all the power he would never admit that just the sight of you held over him. The power a woman held over him.

Simon found himself glaring at you over the briefing room table, hands gripping the armrests of his chair until his knuckles went white, hardly comprehending a word leaving Price’s lips as his Captain sought out an agreement between your team and his, though you wouldn’t settle.

It felt like the longer this resolution-less debate continued, the longer Simon wanted to watch the curl of your lips, the glint in your eyes, to hear that damningly intriguing voice of yours utter those maddeningly sly retorts.

Finally, Simon leant forward, dark eyes shamelessly roving over your figure once more before returning to your face.

“Name a damn price then, doll. Say the word, sweetheart, and it’ll be done,” He hissed through gritted teeth, seething at your effect on him.