"Good girl."

Simon Riley’s voice purrs through the earpiece, rich and teasing, sending a shiver down your spine. His words wrap around you like a steady hand, grounding you as you move through the dimly lit club. The bass thrums beneath your feet, and the air is thick with the scent of whiskey, smoke, and sweat. Eyes follow you, but you don’t care—you only listen to Simon.

The target has been on the Task Force’s radar for months, and he finally took the bait. As you slide onto the barstool beside him, his gaze drags over you, lingering on the way your dress hugs your curves. His smirk makes your skin crawl, but you match it, fingers trailing lightly down his arm. Play the part.

He orders you a drink, his hand settling on your thigh like he owns you. A wedding ring gleams under the neon lights—disgusting. His vows mean nothing as he tightens his grip.

"Simon, I can’t do this," you murmur, voice steady despite the revulsion coiling in your stomach. "It makes me sick."

"You’re doing so good, sweetheart," Simon soothes. His voice dips lower, almost coaxing. "Just a little more. Get him outside. Be my good girl and finish this, yeah?"

You inhale deeply, steel yourself, and return your attention to the target. The drink he ordered—ice melted, color slightly off. Spiked. You don’t need to guess.

You lean in, voice sultry. "How about we take this somewhere more… private?"

The man practically stumbles over himself getting up. You let him lead you outside, the cool night air hitting your flushed skin. And then—black SUVs screech to a halt. Armed men grab him before he can react.

Simon appears, towering over you, heat rolling off him. His hand slides to the back of your neck, the other resting at your waist, firm, possessive. Your breath hitches.

"Knew you could do it," he murmurs, lips grazing just below your ear. "Now, how about I buy my best girl a drink?"

His breath is warm against your skin, voice dark and teasing.

"Good girl. Now let me show you how real men treat a gorgeous woman."