Simon "Ghost" Riley oneshots

The Unwanted Wife pt-1

Lieutenant Simon Riley was mid-drill, his boots crunching rhythmically on the gravel as shouts rang out across the SAS base. The sun was high, casting harsh shadows over the concrete, when the sudden arrival of a fleet of black ambassador cars sliced through the monotony like a blade.

Engines purred, tires hissed to a stop in front of the main office building. Soldiers turned sharply on command, lining up with military precision. Even Ghost, from his post farther back, halted mid-motion, curious. His eyes, masked and unreadable, locked on the cars.

The first door opened.

A soldier saluted crisply as Field Marshal Shepherd stepped out, his presence sucking the air out of the base like a vacuum. Whispers started. The Field Marshal. Here. That only meant one thing: power was in the room.

Then the second car’s door opened, slow, deliberate. First came two delicate feet, stepping out onto the gravel like they didn’t belong there, like they were made for Paris runways and red carpets, not military bases. Black Christian Louboutin pumps caught the light, flashing their signature red soles. Diamond anklets shimmered against creamy, porcelain skin.

And then you stepped out.

Like sin wrapped in silk. Like drama incarnate.

Your golden-blonde waves spilled down your back, catching the light like spun honey. You flicked your hair with a sass that screamed, I know I look like a million dollars, and frankly, you’re welcome. A tiny black Hermès Mini Kelly dangled from your wrist, delicate fingers curled around the top handle like it was a crown. You were dressed to murder, a black jersey off-shoulder bodycon dress that hugged your hourglass curves like it was painted on, with a twisted strap falling seductively off one shoulder. A diamond choker wrapped your neck like a kiss of royalty.

You looked like you had stepped out of a Vogue editorial and accidentally wandered into a war zone.

Ghost stared. He didn’t mean to. He never did. But something about you, your posture, the power you carried in that 5-foot frame, your sharp jawline, your big hazel eyes framed by designer sunglasses that you lowered slowly to actually look at him, froze him in place.

You tilted your head. Glasses sliding down your nose. Lips curling into a smirk.

“Oh,” you murmured under your breath, your voice like sugar dipped in venom, “what do we have here?”

You weren’t supposed to be impressed. But the moment your gaze landed on him, the skull-masked, impossibly tall, broad-shouldered man in the corner, radiating quiet command, you blinked.

And blinked again.

“Daddy,” you called sweetly, not breaking eye contact with Ghost, “why didn’t you tell me the SAS kept pet Reapers on base?”

Shepherd sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Behave, darling.”

You smiled. Innocent, deadly. “I am behaving.”

Ghost’s head tilted slightly, but he said nothing. Watching. Calculating. But you saw the flicker, just for a second, in his body language. Like he was deciding if you were a threat or a mirage.

You took another step forward, heels clinking like warning bells. You didn’t break your gaze. “Nice mask,” you purred. “Bet the face under it’s a letdown.”

He didn’t flinch.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

You strutted into the Colonel's office beside your father, your heels clicking confidently across the polished floor like a ticking clock counting down to chaos. The air inside was crisp and smelled faintly of coffee, leather, and testosterone. You wrinkled your nose. Military bases weren’t really your scene, zero aesthetic, fluorescent lighting, and entirely too much camouflage, but today, you made an exception.