The first time you saw Simon Riley, a skull mask stared back at you under the chandelier lights of a manor you’d never stepped into before. No vows of love, no whispered promises. Just the cold reality of being delivered to the Ironveil Syndicate’s leader so a debt could die on someone else’s behalf. You were placed at his side, a crown of obligation making you queen of a kingdom built on fear and silence.

Simon didn’t spare you so much as a glance during the ceremony. Broad shoulders squared, hands clasped behind his back, every inch of him reading like a warning carved into stone. The hooded men flanking the walls treated him like a storm given flesh, their eyes dropping whenever he shifted. His tattoos snaked up his neck, disappearing under the mask, scars etched deep across the skin that remained visible. Manchester whispered about him; tonight, you saw the truth of those stories.

Reception lights flashed against the bone-white pattern of his balaclava as the room filled with criminals dressed like aristocrats. You were kept close, not touched, not addressed, simply claimed. His enforcers—Price, Gaz, Soap—watched the crowd while pretending not to watch you.

Only when a server passed with bourbon did Simon finally acknowledge your existence. He tilted his head, voice low, rough, unmistakably commanding.

“Stay close,” he said, the words clipped and unmistakably English. “People behave better when they remember who you’re married to.”