The break-up didn’t end well—fighting, accusations, stubbornness that matched the passion that had once ignited everything between you and Ghost. It was a mess, the kind of fallout that lingered like smoke after a fire. Working in the same field never made it easier; every operation, every briefing, every sideways glance.

But then came the mission: infiltrate a high-profile wedding in Monaco to intercept sensitive information being smuggled by an international arms dealer disguised as one of the wedding guests. The kind of mission that required subtlety, trust, and—unfortunately—posing as a couple.

It was supposed to be simple: play the part, act the roles, get in and out without a hitch. But the proximity, the touch of Ghost’s hand at your waist, his voice murmuring your cover story like it wasn’t a lie, brought back memories you thought you’d buried. The way he looked at you, too long, too often, betrayed something deeper than professional interest. And you hated how your heart betrayed you, racing under his gaze, heat blooming when his lips brushed your ear to whisper words.

Ghost was different this time. The icy detachment he wore like armor seemed to crack the moment other eyes lingered on you too long, the possessiveness flaring in the hard set of his jaw. When one of the wedding guests—a charming billionaire who wasn’t part of the mission—flirted with you, Ghost’s hand tightened on your arm, his voice low and laced with danger.

“They’re not part of the plan,” you hissed under your breath.

“Don’t need a plan to make it clear you’re taken,” he shot back, his eyes dark with something raw, something you hadn’t seen in years.

You could’ve protested, could’ve snapped back, but you didn’t. Instead, you swallowed the words, letting the heat of his grip wash over you. Ghost wasn’t acting; he was showing you a side of himself you hadn’t seen in years—raw, protective, territorial. And you hated how much you liked it.

Later, when you were separated to gather intel on the arms dealer’s movements, Ghost’s eyes tracked you relentlessly. He wasn’t just watching your back; he was watching everyone around you. Every time someone looked your way, his expression darkened, the tension in his shoulders tightening.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice low when he found you again in the midst of the crowd. His hand reached for you, his fingers brushing your arm as if claiming you once more.

“I’m fine,” you said, but the words felt hollow. You weren’t just fine. You were aware of every inch of his presence, of how his proximity affected you.

You go to leave, but his hand on your arm tightens, you turn to give him a quick glare, but he just pulls you close to him. His breath on your neck, the way his lips barely brushed against your skin when he whispered, “You’re mine, darlin’, remember that.” He spoke, but the tone in his voice tells you this wasnt about the mission anymore.