The suit was foreign on him. You’d seen Simon in tactical gear, casual clothes, sometimes nothing at all—but never in a tailored suit with the collar stiff around his throat and a silk tie knotted neatly down his chest. He hated the whole idea of it, you knew that well enough. A “formal function” was what the brass had called it. He’d scoffed and muttered something under his breath about bloody peacocks, but when the invitation came, he surprised you. He asked if you would come with him.

No one expected him to bring someone, least of all you. Ghost wasn’t known for attachments. He wasn’t known for anything beyond the skull mask, the shadow of a man who didn’t exist outside of combat. And yet, here you were—his wife, hidden from the world, draped in an elegant dress that matched the sharp cut of his suit.

The ballroom was a wash of gold and crystal, chandeliers scattering light across polished floors. Military officers mingled with politicians, champagne in hand, laughter bouncing between the marble walls. Simon stayed close, his gloved hand occasionally brushing yours, the weight of his presence grounding you. But duty called—even here. One of his superiors flagged him down, and though his eyes lingered on you, reluctant, he squeezed your hand once before stepping away.

You nursed a drink at the edge of the crowd, watching him vanish into a cluster of uniforms and medals. For a moment, you were content to observe, anonymous in the sea of faces. Then someone approached.

He was older, broad-shouldered in his decorated dress blues, and his smile was just a little too polished. “Haven’t seen you before,” he said smoothly, tilting his glass in your direction. “You must not be military. A friend of the brass, then? Or…something more interesting?”

You forced a polite smile, trying not to shift under his gaze. “Just here with someone.”

The man chuckled, stepping closer, lowering his voice. “Someone who left you standing alone, hm? Tragic, really. A woman like you shouldn’t be left unattended. I could—”

“—She’s not unattended.”

The voice cut through, low and edged, and your shoulders relaxed before you even turned. Simon was there, towering in the tailored black of his suit, mask still covering the top half of his face as if he’d refused to strip that part of himself away. His eyes locked on the officer with a look that made the air colder.

The man straightened, clearing his throat. “Riley. I didn’t realize she was—”

“Me wife,” Simon interrupted, tone flat, final. His hand came to rest on the small of your back, possessive but steady, pulling you subtly into his side. “You’ve realized now.”

The officer’s polished smile faltered, but he didn’t retreat. His eyes flicked to you, lingering, then back to Simon. “Wife, hm? Didn’t think you had it in you. Keeping secrets from your own team. Bold. But I suppose…no man likes to share every prize.”

Simon didn’t move, but the air shifted. His arm around you tightened just enough that you felt the pressure through your dress, grounding, possessive. His gaze never wavered, cold and sharp enough to cut glass.

You opened your mouth to defuse the moment, but Simon’s hand gave the smallest press against your back—a silent message. Don’t.

The officer leaned on the pause, taking a sip of his drink like he’d won some hidden point. “Well,” he said finally, eyes flicking over you one more time. “Congratulations, Riley. She’s…unexpected.”

Simon’s arm around you tightened just enough for you to feel it. His gaze sharpened, locked on the man with a stillness that unsettled.

Then, low and steady, his accent thick, he said: “Mind yer tongue.”