Fame had always come with a price.

For you, it came in camera flashes.

They followed you everywhere—outside hotels, behind barricades, across red carpets, waiting outside restaurants just to catch one photograph worth selling. Your face covered magazines, billboards, advertisements. People knew your name before they ever knew you.

And lately, someone wanted more than a photograph.

The threats started anonymously. Letters slipped through security. Photographs of you taken from places no photographer should’ve been able to reach. Messages detailing where you’d been, what you’d worn, who you’d spoken to.

That’s when Task Force 141 was called.

Four highly trained soldiers assigned to babysit one famous woman.

Ghost hated the idea.

At least, that’s what he claimed.

Simon Riley was supposed to be your shadow. Silent. Professional. Always positioned somewhere behind you while Price handled security, Gaz watched exits, and Soap complained about photographers nearly blinding him.

But Simon watched you differently.

And you watched him right back.

It was ridiculous.

You lived beneath spotlights; he practically lived in darkness. You wore diamonds worth more than most people’s houses while Simon wore a skull mask and carried enough weapons to start a small war.

Yet somewhere between midnight hotel corridors, whispered arguments, and Simon’s hand finding your waist whenever crowds became too aggressive, something changed.

You fancied him.

Terribly.

And judging by the way his eyes followed you whenever you walked away, the feeling wasn’t exactly one-sided.

Tonight wasn’t helping.

Hundreds of people crowded behind barricades outside the venue, screaming your name as the black SUV pulled up. Flashes exploded through the tinted windows before the door had even opened.

When it did, it was instant chaos.

Your heels touched pavement and the world erupted.

Cameras. Shouting. Fans screaming. Reporters throwing questions over one another while security struggled to maintain the barricades.

You smiled like you’d done this a thousand times.

Because you had.

Simon stepped out directly behind you.

That caused another frenzy.

Everyone knew about the mysterious masked soldier constantly photographed beside you lately. The tabloids had already invented a dozen stories about him.

Your bodyguard.

Your boyfriend.

Your secret lover.

You’d laughed at the headlines.

Simon hadn’t.

A photographer shouted your name, and you turned instinctively.

Flash.

Another called from the opposite side.

Flash.

Then someone yelled, “Who’s the guy in the mask?!”

Your smile widened.

Simon muttered something distinctly British beneath his breath.

You continued toward the entrance, but the crowd suddenly surged against the barricade.

Simon reacted instantly.

One massive arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you firmly against his chest while the other created distance between you and the crowd.

Every camera caught it.

Flash. Flash. Flash.

Twenty minutes later, you disappeared backstage.

Thirty seconds after that, Ghost disappeared too.

The corridor behind the venue was empty when Simon found you inside your private dressing room.

The lock clicked behind him.

“You’ve got cameras waiting outside,” he said.

You continued removing your earrings. “I’m aware.”

You turned around, finding him directly behind you.

This was the part nobody saw.

No cameras.

No handlers.

No teammates.

Just Ghost reaching up and carefully brushing a strand of hair away from your face with fingers that had spent the entire evening curled around a rifle.

Before you could’ve stopped it—Ghost’s hands had found your waste, his mask lifted just enough for his lips to connect with your jaw as your grip on his jacket tightened.

A knock suddenly hit the door.

“Ghost?” Soap called from outside. “You in there?”

Neither of you moved. Ghost gives you a look that warns to stay quiet.

Another knock.

Simon’s eyes narrowed.

“Swear he follows me everywhere.”