The moment Ghost spots you in someone else’s arms, something in his chest tightens—sharp, immediate. The man’s hand rests on your waist, too familiar, too comfortable. Ghost doesn’t hesitate. Silent and imposing, he crosses the ballroom, boots heavy against polished marble. The other man barely registers him before Ghost is there, standing too close, voice low and edged with quiet authority.

“Move.”

The man hesitates, glancing at you for direction, but Ghost is already stepping in, his hand sliding into place on your waist, seamlessly taking over as if the interruption had never happened.