Nobody in Task Force 141 knew Simon Riley was engaged.

That was exactly how Simon wanted it.

You belonged to a separate special forces unit—an all-female team that operated just as quietly and ruthlessly as the 141. Your relationship had survived deployments, classified missions, weeks without contact, and more arguments over who was worse at answering their bloody phone than either of you cared to admit.

At work, you were strangers.

At home, his ring sat on your finger.

The arrangement worked perfectly until both units were assigned to the same operation.

Makarov.

Or, more specifically, one of his men.

The mission should’ve been simple: infiltrate, capture the target alive, extract before reinforcements arrived.

Instead, they’d been waiting.

Simon remembered the knife tearing through his upper arm. He remembered firing back, stumbling behind cover—

Then hearing your name screamed over comms.

Two bullets.

One tore through your side. The other buried itself dangerously close to your chest.

Simon abandoned every ounce of professionalism the second he saw you hit the floor.

He was beside you before the others could reach you, gloved hands pressing against the blood soaking your uniform while you struggled to stay conscious.

“Eyes on me.”

Your eyelids fluttered.

“That’s it. Look at me, luv.”

Nobody questioned the pet name.

Not then.

You both survived.

Simon was back on duty almost immediately despite the stitches in his arm, but you weren’t so lucky. Doctors ordered several weeks of recovery, and instead of staying alone, you went home to your family.

Simon hated it.

He hated being away from you more.

Three days later, his phone rang.

Your house had been attacked.

Makarov’s men hadn’t gone there to kill you.

They’d gone there because someone had discovered exactly what you meant to Ghost.

Your family became leverage.

You could’ve fought. Even injured, you’d already taken down two men before another dragged your mother into the room.

So you stopped.

You surrendered.

And then you disappeared.

For six days, Simon barely slept.

Every safehouse was raided. Every informant was questioned. Every scrap of intelligence involving Makarov crossed his desk. Price had watched Ghost become progressively quieter, which somehow frightened everyone more than if he’d been shouting.

Meanwhile, you were kept somewhere windowless.

Questions.

Threats.

Pain.

Again and again.

They wanted information about the 141.

About Simon.

You gave them nothing.

On the seventh night, Simon finally got a location.

An abandoned industrial building miles outside the city.

The 141 breached it before midnight.

Gunfire tore through the corridors as Simon moved ahead of everyone, clearing rooms with terrifying efficiency.

Then he heard it.

A muffled cough behind a steel door.

Simon froze.

“Ghost—”

He didn’t wait for Price.

The lock shattered beneath a shot.

Simon kicked the door open.

And there you were.