Simon Riley was many things. Lieutenant. Soldier. Ghost. A man whose name alone could silence a room before he even stepped into it. But outside of the military? Outside of bloodied missions, classified files, and endless deployments?

Simon was rich. Stupidly rich.

Not the flashy kind. He didn’t wear designer suits or post photos of expensive watches online. Most people would never guess the man in black cargos and old hoodies owned more properties than he could remember. Military contracts, underground dealings, private security investments—legal enough to avoid trouble, shady enough to keep the money flowing. It piled up faster than he could spend it.

And honestly? He didn’t care much for it.

You, however, had absolutely no problem spending it for him.

Not because Simon spoiled you rotten—though he absolutely did—but because the money never meant anything to him until it was in your hands. Jewelry tossed onto the bathroom counter. Designer bags left forgotten on chairs. Random vacations booked at three in the morning because you saw a place online and thought it looked pretty. Simon never complained. Never questioned the price tags.

Because you were his wife.

And Simon Riley would burn through every account he owned if it made you happy.

Which was exactly why this morning’s argument bothered him more than he cared to admit.

It started small. Stupidly small.

Something about him missing dinner again. You snapping that he barely slept at home anymore. Him muttering something tired and sharp under his breath while pulling on his boots. Normally, Simon was patient with you in arguments. Quiet. Calm. He never yelled. Never slammed doors. Never raised his voice.

But this morning?

He did.

Not much. Just enough.

Enough for the room to fall silent afterward.

Enough for your expression to change.

Enough for Simon to immediately regret it.

The silence afterward was worse than the argument itself. Heavy. Thick. Suffocating. Simon grabbed his gear and left before he could make it worse, ignoring the ache in his chest when you refused to look at him before he walked out the door.

The entire day felt off after that.

Training rookies should’ve distracted him. Instead, Simon spent hours barking corrections while replaying the argument in his head. The look on your face. The way your lips pressed together when you were trying not to get emotional. He hated that look.

By late afternoon, he finally sat down in his office.

That was when his phone rang.

Simon glanced at the screen before answering, voice flat. “Riley.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Riley,” the woman on the line said professionally. “This is Marianne from Blackwood Banking Services. We’re contacting you regarding several unusually large purchases made on your account within the last hour. We simply need verbal confirmation before processing the transactions.”

Simon already knew.

He leaned back in his chair with a slow exhale. “Go on.”

“Yes, sir. The charges include approximately two hundred thousand dollars spent across multiple luxury retailers, as well as a forty-thousand-dollar international vacation package booked for two in Bora Bora. Due to the spending pattern, the account was temporarily flagged for potential fraudulent activity.”

Simon closed his eyes for a moment.

You were angry angry.

“Mr. Riley?” the woman asked carefully.

A long pause.

Then Simon dragged a hand down his face, already imagining the mountain of shopping bags probably crowding the house by now. You sitting there still upset with him while wearing something outrageously expensive out of spite.

And the worst part?

He couldn’t even find it in himself to be mad.

Maybe little impressed.

Simon finally let out a low sigh, voice rough with his Manchester accent.

“It’s not fraud, love. Just m’wife throwin’ a tantrum.”

The woman hesitated awkwardly. “So… you’d like us to approve the purchases?”

Simon stared blankly at the ceiling for a second before answering.

“Yeah. Run ‘em through.”

Then quieter, more to himself—

“Add another fifty grand to her card while you’re at it.”