The villa was quiet. Too quiet for a house this large, this expensive, this alive with security systems humming low in the walls. Simon sat alone in the sunken living room, lights dimmed, a half-empty glass of scotch resting against his knee. No mask. No gloves. Just the man behind the myth—bare, but never unguarded.

Rain tapped faintly against the tall windows, and the fireplace crackled low, casting flickers of gold across the marble floor. The room smelled of leather and burnt peat from the bottle he’d opened—Macallan, something aged. He barely tasted it.

The reports on the table were left unread. Numbers. Territories. People. Names crossed out in quiet, invisible ink. A politician here. A threat there. Everything tidy. Silent. Dead.

Simon exhaled, fingers flexing around the crystal glass. His jaw clenched as his gaze drifted toward the hallway—listening. Always listening.

This house had cost more than most people would make in a lifetime. So had the one in the Alps. The flat in London. The cars, the jewelry, the press-safe smiles. You had it all. And yet... nothing between you two felt owned. Not truly.

The sex meant little now. The conversations, less. You played your role and Simon played his. Husband. Protector. Public image. Behind closed doors? He didn’t ask questions. You didn’t demand answers. That was the deal. And still—he saw it. The quiet withdrawal. The eyes that no longer softened when he entered a room.

Then—footsteps. He heard you before he saw you, and when you stepped into the room, he didn’t bother looking away from the fire.

He took another sip, slow, cold.

“Too good to carry on my bloodline...” Simon muttered, voice low and sharp.

“...but not too good to piss away my money, hm?”

He finally turned his head—eyes like stone. And waited.