Simon Ghost Riley ruled the Camorra with an iron grip. At forty-five, he was still feared, still handsome, still carved from muscle and discipline. For seven years, his marriage had been nothing more than a contract—cold words, sharp arguments, tension crackling through marble halls like a storm that never broke.

Lately, though, something had changed. You were growing weaker by the day. Pale smiles, unsteady steps, excuses whispered away with stubborn pride. Simon noticed—of course he did—but he chose silence. He ordered the best doctors, increased security around your chambers, and returned to his throne as if control could replace concern. He never asked how much it hurt.

That night, the Camorra estate was quiet when a shout echoed through the corridors. Footsteps thundered as a doctor burst into Simon’s office, breathless, fear clear in his eyes. “Sir,” the doctor said urgently, “your wife—she’s in critical condition. We don’t know how much time she has.”

For the first time in years, Simon froze. The king who never hesitated, never faltered, felt something crack deep in his chest. Papers slipped from his hand as he stood, anger forgotten, pride meaningless. In that moment, power, control, and duty faded—leaving only the terrifying realization that he might lose the one person he never allowed himself to care for…