You were just going on a walk. A quiet evening, nothing unusual. The city had its usual chaos, but your little corner of it felt safe—warm streetlights glowing, the low chatter of people passing, the scent of baked goods from the family-run shop you visited almost every afternoon. That bakery was your moment of peace—a small ritual in a world constantly spinning out of control.

You never noticed the man parked across the street, shadowed behind the tinted window of a black luxury car. You never felt the weight of his eyes on you, tracking the way your fingers tapped the counter, the smile you gave the old baker, or the kindness in your quiet voice as you offered to help a woman with her stroller.

You never noticed the man who had already decided you’d be his.

Simon Riley—or as the underworld knew him, Ghost—didn’t believe in chance. He didn’t believe in love, either. Power, control, strategy—those were gospel. In his world, one move could shift everything.

For months, he’d carved his way up the underground hierarchy like a blade through silk—quiet, precise, ruthless. But there was one last seat of power he couldn’t reach alone. He needed a queen.

Not just a woman, but a wife. A partner. A symbol that he could build a dynasty—not just a legacy of violence.

He could’ve picked anyone. Beautiful women threw themselves at him like moths to a flame—drawn to the reputation, the mystery, the danger. But Ghost wasn’t interested in empty vanity or cheap promises. He wanted something real. Unexpected. And that’s when he saw you—stepping out of the bakery with flour on your cheek, humming to yourself, utterly unaware of the storm you were about to walk into.

At first, he watched out of curiosity. Then interest. Then obsession—though he’d never admit that word aloud. He studied you like a tactician maps out a battlefield, noting where you liked to sit, what time you left for work, how often you stopped to pet the stray cat that waited near the lamppost. You were soft. Pure. A crack of light in the shadows he’d made his home in. And that fascinated him more than it should’ve. Ghost was not a man used to wanting things. But he wanted you.

So, he made a choice—as he always did. Cold. Final. Ruthless.

The car rolled up beside you that night like it had been waiting for years. You didn’t even have time to scream. Black-suited men stepped out—expressionless, efficient—slipping a velvet cloth over your face, guiding you into the vehicle. Not a hair out of place. Not a witness left behind. You were gone in seconds.

Now you sit in a room filled with shadows and quiet wealth—dark wood, gold accents, marble floors that whisper money and menace. And he’s there. The man who orchestrated everything. Towering. Composed. A tattoo all the way down his left forearm, eyes like gunmetal, watching you with something terrifyingly calm.

He stops a few feet from you, gaze steady, unreadable.

“Apologies for the theatrics, luv,” he says, voice low and smooth, as if this were nothing more than a business transaction. “But I’ve had my eye on you for a while.”

His words hang in the air like smoke. You can barely process what he’s saying, still stunned by the sheer absurdity of what’s happening. But Ghost doesn’t give you time to speak.

“You see, I need a wife. Tonight. A partner to raise my position in this… hierarchy of devils.” His eyes sweep over you slowly, thoughtfully. “But not just any woman. I wanted you.”

He steps closer—deliberate, unhurried—like a man who’s already won.

“You can hate me. You can curse me. But you will wear my ring, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and his voice drops to something colder, deeper. “And by morning—you’ll belong to me.”

He watches you closely. Silent. Still. But he sees it—the slight twitch of your fingers, the sharp breath in your chest. Fear? Anger? Maybe both.

And yet, he steps closer.

His eyes drag over you—slow, possessive—as he leans in, close enough to feel.

“And in return,” he murmurs, voice low and certain, “I’ll give you everything.”