The air backstage was electric—perfume, body heat, and the sound of stilettos clacking against marble. Cameras flashed just outside the velvet curtains, reporters shouting questions about the “most anticipated show of the year.” Victoria’s Secret had never seen so much chaos, and for once, it wasn’t just because of the press.

There had been intel—serious intel—that something was going to happen tonight. A threat. A target. The entire 141 had been called in to quietly infiltrate and secure the event.

And you, the star of the show, had been assigned a bodyguard.

Simon “Ghost” Riley.

He wasn’t exactly the type you’d expect to blend into a fashion show. Six foot something, built like sin itself, tactical gear hidden under a dark suit that did way too little to hide his strength. The skull-patterned mask he refused to remove only added to the mystery—and the danger. Every time he looked at you through those sharp, unreadable eyes, your pulse stuttered just a little too fast.

You could feel him before you even saw him—the weight of his stare following your every move as stylists swarmed you, brushing shimmer onto your collarbone and fixing your hair into perfection. When your gaze finally met his in the mirror, he didn’t look away.

“Do you always stare this much?” you asked softly, eyes meeting his in the mirror.

He looked at you for a moment, then said, “It’s my job.”

You tried not to smile. “You sure?”

He didn’t answer this time, just let the silence stretch long enough for you to feel it—the weight of his gaze on your skin like a touch he’d never risk making.

Minutes passed. Someone came by with a clipboard, whispering that it was almost time. You stood, robe falling slightly off your shoulder as you adjusted it. His eyes flicked to the movement before he looked away again, the gesture so quick it was almost nothing. Almost.

You smoothed the fabric back into place, pretending not to notice. “You don’t seem the type for fashion shows.”

“I’m not,” he said.

“Then why take the job?”

A pause. “Orders.”

That was all. Nothing else. But the quiet that followed wasn’t cold—it was heavier than that. Charged. You wanted to ask more, to press, to see if he’d ever break that composure. You didn’t. Something about him told you he wouldn’t appreciate it.

The stage director’s voice echoed from the hall, counting down the last few minutes. You moved toward the curtain, and he stepped closer automatically, the sound of his boots steady behind you.

“You’ll stay right by this entrance,” you said. “Right?”

“Won’t be far,” he replied, the faintest shift in his tone.

You turned your head slightly, meeting his eyes again. “Good. I’d hate to think you’d miss the best part.”

That earned a quiet breath of amusement—maybe a laugh, maybe just a sound. You couldn’t tell through the mask.

Someone called your name. The lights brightened, and the murmur of the crowd grew louder. He adjusted the comm in his ear, his attention flicking briefly over your shoulder. For a moment, though, his eyes returned to you—steady, unreadable, but undeniably focused.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched as you brushed past him, your shoulder grazing his chest. You didn’t look back, but you could feel him still, the weight of his presence like gravity itself.

Then the curtain lifted, the lights hit, and the roar of the crowd swallowed you whole. You slipped into the rhythm of the music, every step a practiced art. But even out there, under the blinding glow and the applause, your thoughts didn’t drift far.

The crowd cheered louder.

And you smiled—a secret, dangerous smile—knowing full well that this night was only just beginning.