You had grown up in a world built from gold. Your family’s wealth was the kind people whispered about—mansions with endless rooms, cars custom-made for your father, your closet lined with designer pieces that never saw the same outfit worn twice. Money was not something you thought about; it was the air you breathed. And with that wealth came the weight of expectation. Every dinner with your parents circled back to the same demand: marry well, marry richer, and keep the fortune circling in an unbreakable chain.

You tried to listen, to follow the path carved out for you. But then, one ordinary morning, you met Simon Riley.

He was sitting in the corner of your favorite café, dressed casually but carrying himself with an ease that pulled your eyes toward him. He didn’t look like the type of man who belonged in your world, and maybe that was exactly why you noticed him. When he caught you staring, he didn’t look away. Instead, he tilted his head, like he was already trying to figure you out. When he asked you out, his voice was low and steady, and for reasons you couldn’t explain, you said yes.

Almost a year later, your life had turned into something unrecognizable.

Your parents hated him. To them, Simon was a dead end. No family name worth aligning with, no fortune to inherit, no advantage to gain. They wanted you married to someone who would make headlines in magazines, not a soldier who lived in a modest flat on the quieter side of the city. But you had chosen Simon.

And it was in his flat—a two-bedroom, nothing fancy, creaking floors and all—that you felt something you had never felt in your mansion: home. The walls were close enough to make you feel safe, the couch soft from use, the kitchen small but warm when Simon cooked. There was no emptiness there, no echo when you spoke.

Tonight, after one of the rare parties hosted by Task Force 141, you found yourself in the passenger seat of Simon’s car. He was still in his suit from the evening, the tie loosened around his throat, the jacket open. His hand rested lazily on the wheel as he drove through the quiet streets.

“How did you like tonight, love?” he asked, his voice rumbling in the dim interior.

You smiled, still warm from the laughter of his teammates, the way they had welcomed you like family despite the differences in your background. “Loved it,” you said softly. Then you turned, watching the blur of lights streak past the window.

A thought pressed at you—something you had been carrying for weeks now. The silence of the car gave you the courage to finally let it out.

“Simon,” you began carefully. “Doesn’t it ever bother you… that I have more money than you? I mean, when your friends ask, when people notice… when you have to say that I’m the one who’s richer?”

The question hung in the air like a heavy fog. You didn’t look at him at first, afraid of what you’d see.

But Simon’s laugh broke the quiet—low, short, and almost amused. He glanced at you, the faintest curve of a smirk tugging at his lips under the shadow of his mask.

“Love,” he said, voice steady, “if I wanted money, I’d have stayed far away from you. Would’ve found some heiress who wouldn’t ask me questions at two in the morning.” His eyes softened as they flicked back to the road. “Doesn’t bother me. Not one bit.”

You frowned slightly, unsure if he was only saying that to soothe you. “But people talk.”

“Let ‘em,” he cut in firmly, his hand sliding from the wheel just long enough to rest on your thigh. His grip was grounding, strong. “They don’t know what I see when I come home to you. They don’t know how your laugh sounds when you’re half asleep, or the way you burn toast every bloody morning even when you try not to.” His thumb brushed against you, gentle. “Money can’t buy that. Never could.”

You stared at him, your chest tightening in a way that was both painful and comforting.

“So no,” he continued, his voice quieter now, meant only for you. “It doesn’t bother me. I’ve faced worse things than gossip. And if anyone ever thinks less of me because of what you’ve got, they're fools."